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JUVENILE    LIBRARY 


BOSTON: 

UONARD      C.     L  u  W  L  t   S; 
AND    B.   H.   GREENE. 


18 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00022228929  ! 

Science 


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AMERICAN 


MORAL     TALES, 


FOR  YOUNG  PERSONS. 


BY   THE    AUTHORS    OF    THE    'TALISMAN,      '1.ES90ITS 
WITHOUT    BOOKS,'    &C. 


QcsirV^wx*.  NV  *•"*»•  Se.«i^u?^0 


BOSTON: 

LEONARD      C.      BOWLES, 

AND    B.    H.    GREENE. 

1832. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1832, 
by  Leonard  C.  Bowles,  in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District 
Court  of  Massachusetts. 


o 
or 


CONTENTS. 


Days  of  Sickness,         -  5 

The  Beatitudes,         -         -         -         -        71 
Mary  Jones,        -        -        -        -        -        177 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/americanmoraltalOOdixd 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 


IT    THE    AUTHOR    OF    THE    *  TALISMAN. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the 
year  1831,  by  Leonard  C.  Bowles,  in  the  Clerk's 
office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


DAYS  OF  SICKNESS. 


One  morning  about  twelve  o'clock,  Robert 
Arnold  came  running  upstairs  to  his  mother's 
room,  calling  out  before  he  was  half  way  up 
(as  it  was  his  habit  to  do)  '  mother,  mother, 
where  are  you?' 

His  mother  answered,  c  here,  my  son,  do  not 
call  so  loud.' 

Robert.     Has  Lucy  come  home? 

Mrs  A.     Yes. 

R.  Where  is  she?  is  she  ready?  you 
know  you  said  we  might  go  out  together  this 
morning  after  school  and  buy  our  printing 
press  if  it  was  fair,  and  1  am  sure  it  is  a  very 
fine  day. 

Mrs  A.  I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you, 
Robert,  but  Lucy  is  ill;  she  came  home  an 
hour  before  school  was  done;  there  she  is  en 
the  sofa. 

1 


6  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

Lucy.  But  my  head  does  not  ache  so  much 
now,  and  perhaps  walking  out  may  make  me 
feel  better. 

Mrs  A.  You  told  me  that  walking  home  in- 
creased your  headach.  You  are  not  better, 
Lucy,  although  I  dare  say  the  excitement  of 
seeing  Robert  makes  you  for  the  moment  for- 
get your  indisposition. 

L.  (Gets  up.)  I  do  feel  better  indeed, 
because  I  am  rested  by  lying  down:  it  is  but  a 
short  walk,  and  when  I  come  home  I  will  lie 
down  again;  and  you  know  I  premised  to  go. 

R.  Yes,  mother,  and  you  knowT  you 
promised  we  should  go,  and  if  you  do  not  let 
us,  you  will  break  your  promise. 

Mrs  A.  It  sometimes  happens  that  we  can- 
not keep  our  promises. 

R.  But  we  must  keep  them,  or  we 
shall  do  very  wrong,  for  you  know  the  psalm 
mother — c  And  though  he  promised  to  his  cost, 
He  makes  his  promise  good.' 

Mrs  A.  We  ought  certainly  to  keep  our 
promise  if  possible,  and  therefore  we  should 
be  cautious  about  making  such  as  it  may  be 
difficult   or  improper  for  us   to  keep.     When 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  7 

circumstances  occur  to  prevent  us  which  we 
could  not  have  foreseen,  wTe  are  excusable. 
R.  Well,  mother,  if  you  do  not  keep 
this  promise  you  need  not  make  me  any  more, 
because  you  know  I  cannot  trust  to  them. 

Mrs  A.     You  never  knew  me  to  break    a 
promise,  which  I  could  keep  with  propriety.    I 
believe   \  must  appeal  to  your   own    sense  of 
right  in  this  instance.     Do  you  not  think  that 
since  it  is  sobad  a  thing  to  break  promises,  and 
I   cannot   keep  mine  now  without  endangering 
Lucy's  health,  you  ought  to  release  me  from  it? 
This  will  be  doing  right,  which  gives  a  feeling 
worth  all  the   printing-presses  in    the    world. 
Come,  Robert,  will  you  not  release  me  ? 
R.     Yes  mother,  I  will. 
Mrs  A.     I  am  much  pleased  with  you,  my 
son.     You  have   relinquished  your   own   sel- 
fish  desires  for  the  good   of    another.     It  de- 
lights me  to  see  you  improving  in  the  habit  of 
self-control;  to  give  up  our  desires  from  a  sense 
that  it  is  not  right  to  indulge  them,  is  self-con- 
trol there  is  no   power  worth  so  much  as  this. 
I  am   willing  you  should  go  by  yourself  and 
buy  the  printing-press  and  bring  it  home.  Lucy 


8  DAYS    OF  SICKNESS. 

will  be   able  to  play  with  you  a  little  I  hope. 

#.  O  I  cannot  go  without  Lucy. You  know 
we  have  both  saved  up  our  money  together  to 
buy  if,  and  she  must  choose  as  well  as  I. 

Mrs  A.  Then  bring  it  for  her  to  see  before 
you  conclude  the  bargiin,  and  if  she  does  not 
like  your  choice  you  can  exchange  i:;  so  that 
difficulty  is  removed. 

R.  But  there  is  another;  Lucy  said  she 
would  ask  for  it  when  we  get  into  the  shop, 
and  >he  would  inquire  the  price,  and  if  we  did 
not  like  the  one  handed  us  she  would  ask  to  see 
another,  and  if  t'lere  were  only  two  sets  of  types 
she  would  tell  the  shopkeeper  we  wanted  one 
with  four  sets,  for  we  cannot  print  much  unless 
we  have  more  than  two  alphabets. — 

Mrs  A.  Why  cannot  you  say  all  this  yourself? 
you  seem  to  have  got  it  pretty  well  by  heart. 

R.  Yes,  to  say  to  you,  but  I  do  not  like 
to  speak  to  a  stringer,  and  I  never  know  how 
to  begin,  but  Lucy  always  can,  and  she  knows 
just  what  to  say. 

Mrs  A.  I  think  it  is  time  you  made  some  ef- 
fort to  overcome  this  bashfulness,  and  this  is  a 
good  opportunity. 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  U 

a. 

R.  Do  let  me  wait  till  tomorrow  and  then 
I  hope  Lucy  can  go. 

Mrs  A.  I  will  if  you  prefer  it,  but  1  am  afraid 
Lucy  will  be  no  better  tomorrow,  I  think  she 
is  going  to  have  the  measles  because  several 
children  of  her  school  are  sick  with  it. 

R.  O  dear,  that  is  too  bad;  I  wonder 
what  good  the  measles  dc>!  You  always  say- 
mother,  that  everything  is  ordered  for  some 
good  end,  but  I  am  sure  there  is  no  good  in 
sickness;  is  there,  Lu  y? 

Lucy,  (hesitatingly.)  Yes  there  must  be;  is 
it  not  to  teach  us  patience,  mother,  do  n:  t  you 
think  it  takes  a  great  deal  of  patience  to  be 
sick? 

Mrs  A.  Yes,  pat'ence  is  one  of  the  lessons 
taught  by  suffering,  and  many  others  not  less 
valuable:  if  Lucy  is  going  to  be  sick,  I  hope  she 
will  not  suffer  in  vain,  but  learn  these  important 
lessons,  and  then  she  will  perceive  that  our 
heavenly  Father  who  knows  far  b3tter  than  our- 
selves wThat  is  best  for  us,  never  afflicts  us  but 
for  our  good. 

R.  I  hope  Lucy  is  not  going  to  be  sick 
mother,  and  1  know  almost  she  is  not,  for  she 


10 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 


Is  sitting  up   and  looks  quite  well  now,  and  I 
think  she  might  go  out  without  danger. 

Mrs  A.  It  will  require  many  trials,  I  fear,  to 
teach  you  patience,  Robert,  but  I  must  not  ex- 
pect too  much  of  one  of  your  irritable  temper- 
ament. I  am  sure  that  if  you  really  believed  it 
would  make  Lucy  worse  to  go  out  with  you, 
you  would  prefer  she  should  remain  at  home, 
for  you  are  an  affectionate  boy  and  love  your 
sister  better  than  you  do  your  toys,  even  new 

ones 

J?.     I  should,  if  I  could  only  believe  so. 
Mrs  A.     You  must  allow  me  to  be  the  judge 
of  that. 

L.  I  wish  we  had  the  printing  press  this  af- 
ternoon, because  it  is  a  holvday  and  Robert 
would  be  at  home  to  play  with  me. 

Mrs  A.  If  Robert  wishes  to  get  it  now, 
and  will  accept  of  me  as  a  substitute  for  your- 
self. I  will  go' with  him  to  buy  it.  What  do 
you  say  to  this  proposal,  Robert  ? 

R.  I  should  like  to  go  with  you  mother,  for 
I  wish  to  have  it  this  afternoon. 

Mrs  A.  Come  along,  then,  there  is  no  time 
to  lose. 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  11 

Robert  and  his  mother  were  absent  about  an 
hour,  when  the  street  door  was  thrown  violent- 
ly open,  and  Robert  ran  up  the  stairs  as  fast  as 
the  heavy  parcel  he  held  in  his  hand  would  per- 
mit, and  called  out,  Lucy,  Lucy,  here  it  is. 

Mrs  A.  Hush,  hush,  Robert  perhaps  Lucy 
is  asleep. 

R.  (stops) .  O!  I  forgot.  I  will  open  the  door 
very  sofily  mother,  and  just  look  in. — Her  eyes 
are  open,  she  is  awake. 

L.     Come  in,  I  am  not  asleep. 

R.  I  am  glad,  Lucy,  you  could  not  go,  tha* 
is  1  am  glad  mother  went,  for  we  have  purchas- 
ed a  b'gger  one  and  a  better  one  than  we  should 
if  only  you  and  I  had  gone  for  it. 

L.     How  ?  did  mother  give  you  more  money? 

R.  You  shall  hear.  First  we  went,  you 
know  to  Miss  N.  as  you  and  1  agreed;  she  had 
sold  all  hers  but  one  which  was  not  complete, 
though  it  was  a  large  one,  and  she  said  she 
would  let  us  have  it  cheap.  I  wanted  to  take 
it,  but  mother  said  she  should  prefer  one  that 
was  perfect  if  she  could  find  it. — Miss  N.  said 
she  should  have  some  more  in  the  next  arrivals 
from  Germany,  but  that  would  not  be  this  af- 


\%  DAYS    OF  SICKNKSS. 

ternoon,   so  we  went  to  another  toy  shop  in 
Cornhiil. 

L.  1  am  sorry  you  did  not  get  it  at  Miss 
N's.  because  I  like  her. 

R.  So  do  J  the  best  of  all  the  toy 
shops. 

Mrs  A.  The  best  of  all  those  who  keep  toy 
shops,  I  suppose  you  mean.  Miss  N.  is  not  a 
shop. 

R.  (laughing)      No  indeed. 

Mrs  A.  Be  careful  to  express  yourself 
correctly  that  you  may  form  the  habit  early,  and 
then  yo'ir  conversation  will  not  be  inelegant  or 
unintelligible.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  interrupt- 
ing you. 

R.  The  man  was  obliging  also  in  the 
next  shop  we  went  to,  and  showed  us  a  num- 
ber of  presses.  Mother  thought  some  too  small, 
others  too  dear. 

Lucy.     How  dear  lucre  they. 

J?,  there  was  one  grand  one  for  five 
dollars,  and  we  bad  but  two,  you  know. 

Lucy.     Well,  what  then? 

i?.       Then     mother    said     she   would    be 
obliged  to  him  to  look  once  more  and  see  if 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS  13 

be  had  not  one  between  these  sizes;  which  he 
did,  and  at  last  he  found  one.  You  will  see 
when  I  open  it  w7hat  an  excellent  one  it  is.  This 
was  $2  50.  Mother  said  she  would  give  me 
tbe  half  dollar,  and  she  said  she  would  send  to 
the  type  foundry  and  buy  us  some  more  types. 
There  are  only  four  alphabets, two  large  and  two 
small,  and  some  figures  and  stops. 

Lvcy,  Come,  let  me  see  it. 
2?.  (opens  the  paper  in  what  the  prpss  is  wrap- 
ped)— Now  look,  this  is  the  drawer  for  the 
types  :  it  will  hold  a  great  many  more.  Here 
is  another  drawer;  in  it  is  a  little  cup  of  ink, 
we  can  get  more  at  the  printers'  when  this  is 
used  up. 

L.  What  are  these  two  little  round  cushions, 
with  such  cunning  handles  ? 

R.     These  are  daubers. 

L.     Daubers,  what  are  they  ? 

R.  Things  to  put  the  ink  on  to  the  types 
when  they  are  set.    I  shall  show  you. 

This  is  the  box  to  set  the  types  in,  and  a 
cross  piece,  just  where  we  want  it,  with  a  screw 
to  keep  them  steady. 

L.  what  is  this  long  twisted  stick  at  the 
top? 


14  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

R.  That  is  the  screw,  to  make  it  press,  that 
is,  as  mother  said,  to  produce  the  pressure. 
Now    I  will  print  something,    may  1    mother. 

Mrs  A-  Yes,  get  some  paper  and  a  little 
water,  for  the  paper  must  be  damp  when  you 
print,  it. 

R.  Yes,  you  know  how  wet  the  newspaper 
is ;  I  have  to  dry  it  every  morning. 

L.  And  you  have  heard  people  say  'wet 
from  the  press'.     Come,  begin. 

Mrs  A.  My  dear  Lucy,  your  cheek  is  very 
much  flushed,  you  are  not  able  to  bear  this  ex- 
citement. Robert,  you  must  put  away  the  press 
for  the  present. 

L.  He  need  not  if  he  will  take  it  into  the 
parlor  and  play  by  himself. 

R.  No,  I  had  rather  wait  till  you  can  play 
with  me.  Dont  you  think  she  will  be  able  af- 
ter dinner,  mother? 

Mrs  A.  Perhaps  so,  but  first  she  must  take 
some  medicine   an d  li e  d o wn  qui e tly . 

Lucy  did  as  her  mother  wished,  and  in  a  few 
hours  awaked  much  refreshed.  Her  brother 
was  called  and  the  press  again  brought  out. 

R.     I  will  call  for  the  letters,  and  you  shall 


DATS    OF    SICKNESS.  17 

hand  them,  Lucy  . — Let  me  see,  what  shall  I 
print?  1  will  print  my  name.  No  1  will  print  your 
name,  Lucy  Arnold.  First,  L,  there  it  is  in 
that  row;  all  the  gieat  letters  are  by  themselves, 
and  all  ihe  small  ones.  Now  u.  No,  not  great  U, 
little  u,  or  do  you  wish  it  to  be  all  in  capitals.' 

L.     No,  only  the  initials. 

i?.     What  sort  of  letters  are  those? 

L.  Dont  you  know  ?  the  first  letter  of  each 
word.     R.  A.  are  your  initials. 

R.  O  yes.  I  have  R.  A.  on  some  of 
my  clothes  instead  of  my  whole  name  ;  but  now 
T  have  a  press,  1  shall  mark  everything  with  my 
whole  name  ;  you  know  little  Joseph  Carter 
marked  a  set  of  napkins  very  neatly  for  his  mo- 
ther, with  his  press. — Come,  give  me  little  u. 

L.  Here  are  all  the  letters ;  how  quick- 
ly I  have  found  them.  Although  they  look  up- 
side down,  or  some  how  wrong. 

R.  That  is  done  to  make  them  come 
right  on  the  paper  like  the  letters  on  mamma's 
seal.  She  told  me  that  they  were  cut  wrong 
but  look  right  when  an  impression  is  made,  be- 
cause they  are  reversed.  Now  I  have  it  all  set, 
I  will  screw  it  up  steady,  so  that  the  letters  can- 


16  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS* 

not  be  moved  by  the  press.  Put  some  ink  on 
the  daubers  and  give  them  to  me. 

Mrs  A.  Take  this  little  brush;  do  not  ink 
)Tour  fingers  or  clothes.  Printers'  ink  makes 
a  stain  that  cannot  be  washed  out.  I  hope  this 
press  will  assist  you  in  forming  habits  of  neat- 
ness. 

R.  I  will  be  very  careful,  mother.  There 
is  ink  enough,  Lucy ;  now  look  at  me,  I  have 
seen  the  printers  daub  it  on,  first  one  hand, 
(hen  the  other.  Their  hands  go  so  fast,  one 
can  hardly  see  them. 

Mrs  A.  A  meihod  has  been  invented  lately 
of  inking  the  types  by  machinery,  which  does 
the  work  much  faster.  I  will  take  you  and 
Lucy  to  see  the  hydrostatic  press. 

R.  1  wish  you  would,  mother,  but  I  should 
prefer  putting  on  the  ink  myself,  for  I  like 
that  part  of  the  business.  Now  the  types  are 
ready, — where  is  the  paper? 

Mrs  A.  That  orght  to  be  ready  prepared. 
Wet  it,  and  wipe  off  the  water  with  a  cloth, 
which  will  leave  it  just  damp  enough. 

R.  Give  it  to  me  if  you  please.  See — 
I  lay  it  on  the  types  as  they  are  set — then  an- 


DAYS    OF    STCKNESS.  17 

other  piece  of  paper  over  to  keep  the  types 
from  pressing  through.  Then  I  place  it  under 
this  flat  board  and  turn  the  screw,  till  it  press- 
es very  hard.  Now  I  will  turn  the  screw  back 
and  you  shall  see  your  own  name,  Miss  Lucy 
Arnold,  printed  by  your  own  brother. — Here  it 
is.     But  do  look  at  it ! 

L.  What  is  the  matter.? — it  is  not  my 
name,  here  is  d,  little  d,  first. 

R.  It  is  all  backwards — Lucy  Arnold 
backwards.  How  could  that  be  ?  It  is  right 
on  the  types.  You  can  read  it,  mother;  what 
makes  it  come  wrong  on  the  paper  ? 

Mrs  A.  Take  the  types  as  they  are  now  set. 
Place  a  bit  of  paper  on  them.  Observe  where 
the  d  at  the  end  of  your  name  comes  ;  is  it  not 
at  the  left  hand  where  the  beginning  ought  to 
be? 

R.  O  yes,  I  see  now  how  it  is;  the  nnme 
should  be  spelled  backwards  with  the  types  and 
then  it  will  come  right  on  the  paper. 

L.  Like  your  seal,  mother,  because  the  im- 
pression is  reversed. 

R.  Do  printers  always  have  to  spell  back- 
wards ? 


18  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

Mrs.  A.  Their  types  seem  to  be  set  in  that 
way.  I  am  surprised  that  you  did  not  observe 
this  when  you  visited  them. 

R.  I  did  not  go  very  near  to  the  press.  You 
told  us,  mother,  that  you  wished  us  to  buy  a 
printing  press  because  it  would  teach  us  to 
spell,  but  you  do  not  want  us  to  learn  to  spell 
backwards. 

Mrs.  A.  No — printers  do  not  spell  back- 
wards; they  put  the  letters  upside  down.  Take 
a  piece  of  paper  printed  on  but  one  side.  Hold 
it  up  to  the  window,  with  the  beginning  of  the 
page  down,  and  the  printed  side  from  you.  Now 
read  it,  commencing  at  the  bottom.  The  letters 
and  words  appear  as  the  types  do  to  the  printer. 

i?.  O  mother !  look  at  Lucy  ;  while  we  have 
been  talking  she  has  laid  down.  She  looks  very 
pale.     Mother,  she  is  fainting.     Ring  the  bell. 

Mrs  A.  I  vvill  not  wait,  but  run  for  some 
water  myself. 

Lucy  was  indeed  more  ill  than  she  had  con- 
fessed, and  the  interest  she  had  taken  in  the 
new  press  had  quite  exhausted  her.  Her 
mother  requested  Robert  to  leave  the  room, 
drew  the  window  curtain,  and  after  Lucy  had 


DAYS  OF  SICKNESS.  19 

been  revived  by  suitable  applications,  sat  down 
quietly  by  her  bed  and  would  not  allow  any  one 
else  to  come  near  her, — for  she  was  well  aware, 
that  children  are  as  easily  fatigued  by  noise 
and  confusion  when  they  are  sick,  as  older 
persons,  although  they  do  not  always  know 
what  it  is  that  worries  them. 

Mrs  Arnold  sent  for  a  physician;  he  told  her 
Lucy's  symptoms  were  like  those  of  the  measles, 
and  he  hoped  the  eruption  would  appear  the 
nest  day. — He  gave  her  some  composing  med- 
icine, which  he  said  was  all  he  wished  to  have 
done  that  night.  This  Doctor  was  a  very 
kind  man,  particularly  to  children.  Lucy  was 
fond  of  him, and  it  was  but  a  day  or  two  before 
that  she  had  said,  how  long  it  is  since  Doctor  B. 
has  been  here.  I  believe  I  must  get  a  little 
sick,  that  mother  may  send  for  him.  Mrs  Ar- 
nold reminded  Lucy  of  this  when  he  came  in. 
'  O  dear,'  she  exclaimed,  'I  did  not  wish  to  be 
so  ili  as  I  am  now;  can't  you  give  me  some- 
thing, Doctor,  that  will  cure  me  to  night?' 

'I  can  give  you  something,  he  replied, that  will 
relieve  you,  and  as  I  hope  enable  you  to  sleep, 
but  not  cure  you  quite  so  soon.  You  are  such  a 


20  DAYS  OF  SICKNESS. 

patient  Tittle  girl  however,  that  [  can  cure  you 
much  sooner  than  I  could  some  children.  I 
visit  one  little  girl  with  the  measles,  who  has 
cried  so  much  because  her  head  ached,  and 
because  she  was  required  to  take  medicine, 
and  because  she  was  not  allowed  to  eat  a  bit  of 
cake  which  an  injudicious  friend  brought  her, 
that  I  fear  her  eyes  will  be  almost  ruined. 
You  must  remember  Lucy,  that  the  measles  is 
a  disease  which  afFects  the  eyes,  and  refrain 
from  crying,  and  even  from  rea  ding,  if  you 
have  it. 

4  Not  read,'  said  Lucy.   '  Shall  I  have  to  lie 
in  bed  all  the  day  and  not  read  ? 

c  I  fear  so,'  answered  Doctor  B.  '  at  least, 
for  some  days.' 

■  Can  I  draw,  or  sew  Dr.? 

4  No,  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  use  your 
eyes  at  all,  if  you  have  the  measles,  even  if 
they  are  not  (as  is  generally  the  case)  much 
inflamed;  but  your  mother  will  find  some  way 
of  amusing  and  employing  your  mind,  if  your 
eyes  and  hands  are  idle.  Good  night.  I  hope 
to   see   you  as  red  as  a  scarlet-bean-blossom 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  2  jt 

Lucy  bad  a  less  comfortable  night  than  the 
Doctor  had  anticipated;  her  mother  hardly 
closed  her  eyes;  but  whan  morning  came  the 
measles  did  not  appear,  and  Lucy  was  much 
worse.  When  the  Doctor  saw  her,  he  said  he 
had  no  doubt  of  the  disease,  and  should  like  to 
have  a  warm  bath  tried.  l  Mother,'  said  Lucy, 
'I  wish  you  would  not, I  can't  bear  a  warm  bath..1 
'Lucy.' said  the  Doctor, 'as  you  area  reasonable 
child  I  trust  your  mother  will  be  able  to 
persuade  you  to  take  it  willingly,  as  it  would 
otherwise  be  less  beneficial.  Pray  why  do  you 
dislike  a  bath? 

Lucy.  I  feel  so  sick  I  can't  move;  and  it 
frightens  me  to  go  into  the  water. 

Dr.  As  to  your  moving,  you  shall  not  have 
that  trouble,  for  your  mother  will  have  you 
moved  in  very  gently,  and  you  know  there  can 
be  no  danger  in  your  lying  in  a  tub  of  warm 
water  with  your  mother  sitting  by  your  side; 
you  will  allow  that  it  is  foolish  to  be  frightened 
when  there  is  no  danger. 

Lucy.  I  do  not  think  it  will  do  me  any- 
good  to  take  a  warm  bath. 

Dr.     Now  who  my  dear  Lucy,  do  you  sup- 


22  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

pose  is  the  best  judge  of  this  matter,  you  who 
never  saw  any  one  with  the  measles,  or  myself 
who  see  a  dozen  or  more  every  day?'  Lucy 
made  no  farther  objections  but  took  the  bath  so 
tranquilly  that  it  had  the  desired  effect.  The 
next,  morning  she  began  to  feel  less  distress- 
ed, still  however  she  was  very  ill,  and  her 
mother  left  her  scarcely  a  moment,  and  afford- 
ed her  every  alleviation  in  her  power;  and  was 
so  v  ery  tender  and  kind,  that  Lucy  experienc- 
ed a  pleasure  in  her  presence  that  almost  charm- 
ed away  her  suffering.  '  Dear  mother,'  said 
Lucy,  '  it  takes  more  patience  to  be  sick  than  I 
thought  it  would.  Do  you  think  I  have  been 
pattern?' 

c  Yes,'  answered  her  mother,  'as  much  so  as 
could  be  expected  from  a  little  girl  of  your 
ase,  and  this  has  no  doubt  alleviated  vour 
distresses. 

Lucy.  I  have  tried  to  be  so,  for  I  remem- 
bered what  you  said  the  other  day;  that  you 
hoped  I  should  not  suffer  in  vain,  but  learn  pa- 
tience by  my  sickness. 

Mrs  Arnold.  You  ought  certainly  to  en- 
deavor to  learn  since  it  is  God  who   is  teach- 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  23 

ing  you  the  lesson.  He  is  a  kind  Father  and. 
designs  our  good  in  every  thing  that  happens 
to  us;  and  we  ought  not  by  our  willfulness  to 
frustrate  his  design. 

Lucy.     Cannot    God    do    every    thing   he 
pleases  ? 

Mrs  Arnold.     Yes,  he  is  all  powerful. 

Lucy.  How  then  can  we  hinder  his  mak- 
ing us  good  when  he  chooses  ? 

Mrs  Arnold.  He  has  ordained  that  our 
virtue  should  be  voluntary,  ihat  is,  depend  in 
some  degree  on  ourselves.  God  has  given  us 
a  capacity  for  virtue,  and  all  the  assistance  and 
encouragement  requisite,  but  has  left  it  to  our- 
selves to  determine  whether  we  will  be  good 
-or  not.  However  much  we  may  admire  vir- 
tue we  cannot  secure  it  without  constant  effort, 
and  the  help  of  our  Heavenly  Father,  which 
if  we  pray  for  sincerely  we  shall  be  sure  to 
obtain.  Therefore  my  dear  Lucy  you  must 
keep  in  mind,  that  although  it  is  sometimes 
very  hard  to  do  what  you  know  you  ought  to 
do,  as  for  instance,  to  bs  patient  while  you 
.are  sick,  yet  that  you  can  do  it,  if  you  try,  and 
that  you  will  suffer  the  misery  of  self  reproach 


24  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

and  consciousness  of  the  displeasure  of  God  if 
you  do  not.  Have  you  learned  no  other  les- 
son by  your  sickness  ?  the  lesson  of  kindness 
for  instance. 

Lucy.  Why,  mother,  it  is  you  who  have 
learned  that;  yon  have  been  kinder  to  me  than 
when  I  am  well. 

Mrs  Arnold.  The  lesson  wTas  designed  for 
me  no  less  than  for  yourself;  but  1  wish  you 
to  reflect  how  acceptable  my  kindness  is  to  you, 
and  when  you  have  sick  friends,  and  still  more 
when  you  know  of  any  one  who  is  sick  without 
friends,  do  all  in  your  power  for  their  comfort 
and  relief. 

Lucy.  O  mother,  I  shall  always  be  kind 
to  sick  persons:  if  Robert  has  the  measles  I 
will  do  every  thing  for  him. 

Mrs  Arnold-  You  see  now  the  value  of 
friends;  they  enhance  our  enjoyments,  but  how 
much  more  can  they  alleviate  our  sufferings  L 
And  who  gave  us  our  friends,  Lucy  ? 

L.  I  know  mother  no  one  but  God  could 
give  such  good  gifts. 

Mrs  A.  Then  my  dear  child  learn  above 
all  other  lessons,  that  of  gratitude  to  God,  for 


DAYS    OF     SICKNESS.  25 

this  and  every  good  gift.  And  since  even  a 
weak  imperfect  child  like  yourself  can  thus  per- 
ceive the  advantages  of  suffering  in  your  own 
case,  learn  to  feel  a  perfect  reliance  on  this  wis- 
dom and  goodness  even  in  cases  when  this  ad- 
vantage is  not  apparent.  This  feeling  of  reliance 
to  God  is  faith,  it  is  a  never  failing  support  to 
the  religious  mind  in  the  severest  trials. 

Perhaps  this  conversation  may  be  dull  to 
some  of  my  young  readers,  who  are  not  in  the 
habit  of  talking  on  such  subjects  with  their 
parents  and  friends:  but  I  can  assure  them  it 
was  not  so  to  Lucy,  who  often  conversed 
with  her  mother  in  this  way,  and  had  thus  ac- 
quired a  power  of  affection  and  an  interest  in 
various  subjects  certainly  uncommon  at  her  age. 
Lucy  loved  God  for  his  goodness  to  herself  and 
to  all  the  creatures  he  has  made.  Her  ideas 
of  his  wisdom  and  power,  though  imperfect 
and  sometimes  vague,  were  sufficient  to  excite 
the  sentiments  of  reverence  and  piety  in  her 
mind.  This  was  a  long  night  to  Lucy.  If  she 
fell  asleep  her  cough  soon  awakened  her;  her 
mother  was  so  anxious  that  she  did  not  go  to 
bed,  but  laid  down  by  Lucy's  side, ready  to  rise 
whenever  she  was  needed. 


26  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

Children  generally  are  not  aware  how  much 
fatigue  and  anxiety  their  mothers  endure  for 
them  especially  when  they  are  ill,  but  Lucy 
had  reflected  on  this  and  she  told  her  mother 
she  wished  she  would  go  to  bed.  '  I  can  call 
you,'  said  she,  cif  I  want  any  thing;'  but  her  mo- 
ther answered, c  not  to  night,  Lucy.  I  can  lie 
down  tomorrow  and  get  as  much  sleep  as  I  re- 
quire.' 

Thursday  morning  came  and  Mrs  Arnold 
fo*md  her  daughter  but  little  relieved.  The 
Doctor  arrived,  and  said  she  was  very  ill.  He 
directed  some  new  applications  and  ordered  her 
to  be  kept  very  quiet. 

After  he  was  gone  Lucy  said,  '  I  wish,  mo- 
ther, you  could  read  to  me,  but  I  suppose  the 
room  is  too  dark.' 

4  T  fear  it  is,'  said  her  mother,'  as  my  eyes 
are  not  strong.' 

? 1  have  very  unpleasant  thoughts,'  said  Lucy. 

4  I  wish  something  could  drive  them  away.' 

'  What  thoughts  my  dear?' 

'  All  sorts  of  ugly  shapes  and  creatures,  and 

then  I  think  that  I  am  falling  down,  and  then 

that  it  is  all  a  dream,  but  I  have  not  been  asleep. 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  21 

Do  sit  close  by  me.'  said  Lucy,  with. a  very 
distressed  look  and  tone. 

Her  mother  perceived  that  a  slight  attack  of 
delirium  not  unfrequent  with  her  children  when 
they  were  feverish,  was  coming  on,  and  she 
felt  it  to  be  important  to  soothe  and  tranquillize 
her  mind.  She  had  intended  to  call  the  maid 
to  sit  by  Lucy,  while  she  laid  down;  but  she 
deferred  doing  this,  and  seating  herself  by  the 
bed  look  Lucy's  hand,  kissed  her  burning  cheek, 
and  said,  '  shall  I  tell  you  a  story,  Lucy?' 

'Do,  mother.' — Mrs  Arnold  endeavored  to  find 
something  which  would  not  call  forth  much 
thought  or  feeling,  but  only  gently  engage  the  im- 
agination of  her  sick  child;  and  upon  the  spur 
of  the  occasion  related  the  following. 


THE    DISCONTENTED     CAT. 

There  was  once  an  old  woman,  who  lijred 
on  the  edge  of  a  wood  by  the  road  side.  It 
was  an  unfrequented  place,  though  not  very- 
far  from  the  village.     This  old  woman  was  fond 


28  DAYS    OF    SICK.NFSS. 

of  a  solitary  life,  seldom  went  to  the  village,  and 
rarely  saw  any  one  at  her  hut,  or  passing  her 
door. 

She  had  one  son,  now  grown  up  to  be  a  man, 
and  he  was  a  sailor.     Whenever  he  arrived  from 
Ills  voyages,  if  it  was  at  any  port  near  enough  for 
him  to  visit  his  mother,  he  always  went  to  see  her, 
and  carried  her  some  little  present.    Once  in  the 
stormy  month  of  November,  his  ship  was  cast 
awry  on  our  own  coast,  and  several  of  the  sail- 
ors lost  their  lives.     The  old    woman's    son, 
(whose  name  was  Thomas)  was  preserved;  he 
was  thrown  by  the  waves  on  a  roc'<  which  was 
near    the  shore,  «md  being  a  good   swimmer, 
as  soox  as  he  recovered  his  strength  sufficiently, 
he  swam  tn  the  land,  and  when  nearly  exhausted 
reached  it,  and  was  barely  able  to  crawl  up  a 
little  way  on  the  sand,  and  then  laid  down  quite 
overcome,  and   fell    asleep.      He  slept    for   a 
long  time,    he  did    not   know  how  1  ng  when 
he  awaked,  till  looking  up,    he  observed    that 
the  sun  was  setting,   and   remembered   that  it 
was  near  noon  when  he  was  cast  away.     He 
could  not  tell  where  he  was,  nor  did  lie  at  first 
call  10  mind  the   dreadful  scene  through  which 
he  had  passed.     He  felt  something  soft  on  his 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  29 

cheek,  and  perceived  a  kitten,  which  had  snug- 
gled down  close  to  his  face  while  he  slept,  to 
keep  herself  warm.  He  now  recollected  that 
the  last  thin^  he  saw  when  he  was  leaping  from 
the  rock  on  which  he  had  been  thrown  was  this 
kitten,  (which  was  born  on  board  the  ship) 
struggling  in  the  waves,  and  he  had  a  strong 
desire  to  save  it,  but  he  knew  that  he  must  give 
all  his  strength  to  reach  the  shore,  so  he  left 
the  kitten  to  tier  fate.  Stic1,  as  he  now  found, 
had  followed  him  and  landed  safely  like  himself* 
Thomas,  who  was  a  ki. id-hearted  man,  rejoiced 
to  see  the  kitten  alive,  and  tak'n  g  her  up  in  his 
arms,  said,  L 1  will  carry  you  home  to  motberj 
1  have  lost  everything,  and  this  is  the  only  pre- 
sent I  can  make  her.' 

The  little  kitten  felt  very  happy  and  comfort- 
able in  Thomas'  arms,  but  she  cou'd  not  like 
him  experience  the  thankfulness  with  which 
Thomas' heart  was  filled,  when  he  reflected  on 
his  late  danger  and  the  goodness  of  God  in  pre- 
serving him  in  the  midst  of  so  much  peril. 
'  It  was  for  my  old  mother's  sake,  I  am  sure/ 
said  he,  '  it  would  have  broken  her  heart  to 
have  lost  her  oidy  sen.'  Thomas  knelt  dowa 
2 


30  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

and  offered  a  fervent  and  pious  prayer  to  God. 
He  then  looked  around  for  his  companions,  but 
he  did  not  see  one,  nor  even  a  bit  of  the  ship, 
although  as  he  learned  afterward  several  of  the 
men  were  thrown  on  the  coast  not  far  from  the 
spot  where  he  was  saved.  They  were  hid  from 
his  sight  by  a  high  rock,  and  taking  a  different 
direction  from  him,  he  did  not  hear  anything 
of  them  till  some  time  after. 

Thomas  walked  on  with  his  kitten,  and  reach- 
ed some  dwelling  houses  in  the  course  of  the 
night,  where  he  met  with  a  friendly  reception 
and  found  out  that  he  was  not  very  far  from  home. 
In  the  course  of  a  day  or  two  he  got  back  to 
his  mother,  with  nothing  but  the  clothes  he  had 
on,  and  his  kitten. 

The  old  dame  told  Thomas  not  to  lament 
the  loss  of  his  little  property,  which  consisted 
in  a  small  adventure,  and  his  chest  of  clothes, 
but  be  grateful  to  God  who  had  preserved  his 
life  and  strength  to  go  to  work  again.  She  was 
much  pleased  with  the  kitten,  and  said  she 
should  never  look  on  it  without  thinking  of 
his  wonderful  preservation,  and  if  in  his  absence 
she  was  ever  anxious  for  his  safety,  she  would 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  31 

remember     that     God     could   protect      him. 

Thomas  remained  with  his  mother  a  week, 
and  then  went  to  Boston.  He  obtained  a  re- 
commendation from  his  late  Captain,  who  he 
was  glad  to  find  had  been  saved  in  the  ship- 
wreck. And  in  less  than  a  month  (during 
which  time  he  was  not  idle,)  he  was  shipped 
for  another  voyage. 

The  kitten  remained  with  the  old  dame,  who 
had  a  cow  and  gave  the  kitten  milk  three  times 
a  day.  In  the  evening  when  she  sat  down  to 
read  her  Bible  she  always  held  kitty  in  her  lap. 
When  the  sun  shone  the  kitten  sat  on  a 
shelf  under  the  window.  She  grew  very  fast 
and  seemed  to  be  as  happy  as  ever  a  cat  was 
in  the  world.  The  old  dame  believed  the  cat 
loved  her  as  much  as  she  did  the  cat,  but  we 
shall  find  she  was  mistaken. 

The  hut  was  different  from  the  ship  in  which 
pussy  was  born,  and  notwithstanding  the  dame's 
kindness  to  her  she  was  discontented  and 
thought  she  could  do  better  elsewhere.  I  have 
known  some  little  children  as  silly  as  this  cat, 
and  although  they  had  kind  friends  and  a  com- 
fortable home,  yet  indulge  in  discontented  feel* 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  33 

ings,  and  be  always  wishing  for  something  they 
have  not  got. 

The  winter  had  come  on,  the  ground  was 
covered  with  snow,  and  one  morning  when  the 
dame  was  busy,  the  duor  being  open,  pussy 
walked  out.  The  sun  was  shining  bright,  pus- 
sy ran  along  the  fences  skipping  from  one  rail  to 
another,  now  and  then  dropping  on  the  snow  and 
enjoyed  it  very  much.  She  was  soon  far  from 
the  hut,  but  did  not  see  any  other  house.  She 
thought  she  would  climb  up  a  tree  to  find  a  bird 
for  her  dinner,  for  she  began  to  be  hungry. 
But  the  birds  had  all  flown  away  to  a  warmer 
climate,  and  she  had  to  come  down  again,  then 
she  tried  to  smell  along  the  ground  for  a  mouse 
or  a  mole,  but  the  snow  was  too  deep  for  her  to 
find  anything.  At  last  after  wandering  about 
till  [light  and  getting  very  cold  and  hungry  she 
spied  a  light.  She  hop  jd  it  vas  the  old  dame's 
hut,  and  ran  up  to  it  bui  it,  was  a  strange  house, 
and  there  were  strange  faces  in  it.  Neverthe- 
less as  she  looked  in  at  the  window,  the  fire 
burned  so  bright  and  there  were  so  many  good 
things  on  the  table  for  supper  that  she  thought 
she  would    iro  to  the  door  and  wait   till   some 


34  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

one  opened  it,  and  then  creep  slily  in.  When 
she  came  to  the  door  a  great  dog  lay  there,  and 
he  growled  at  her,  and  frightened  her  very 
much.  She  was  loth  to  quit  such  a  comforta- 
ble shelter,  so  she  did  not  go  directly  off;  then 
the  dog  barked,  and  the  man,  when  he  heard 
the  dog  bark,  came  to  the  door  and  beat  poor 
pussy  with  a  stick.  Though  very  cold  and 
hungry,  she  wTas  obliged  to  go  away.  Puss 
then  wTent  to  the  barn,  where  she  had  a  good 
bed  on  the  hay,  but  no  supper,  for  there  was 
nothing  to  eat  there,  not  so  much  as  a  mouse 
for  her  to  catch.  Even  the  flies,  which  she 
used  to  get  in  the  dame's  sunny  window,  were 
not  to  be  found  here,  for  it  was  too  cold  for 
them  to  live  in  the  barn;  so  morning  came,  and 
pussy  saw  the  dog  coming  out,  and  she  ran  away 
from  him  as  fast  as  she  could. 

Alas,  thought  pussy,  why  did  I  leave  my  kind 
mistress?  if  I  had  stayed  with  her,  I  should  now 
have  a  nice  saucer  of  milk  and  sit  in  her  lap  by 
the  fire.  1  wish  I  could  find  the  way  back, 
thought  she.  So  she  tried;  but  took  the  wrong 
way,  for  it  is  easier  to  stray  from  home  than  to 
find  the  way  back  again.     The  farther  she  ran, 


days   or    SICKNESS.  35 

the  farther  she  removed  from  the  old  dame's 
hut. 

This  kind  old  lady  was  grieved  when  she 
found  the  cat  was  gone,  ft  was  the  only  com- 
panion she  had  and  she  loved  her  for  her  son's 
sake.  She  is  an  ungrateful  puss,  said  the  dame, 
and  will,  I  am  sure,  repent  of  having  left  me. 
She  went  to  the  door  several  times  in  the 
course  of  the  morning,  and  called  puss,  puss, 
puss!  but  puss  could  not  hear  for  she  was  a 
great  way  off. 

In  the  mean  time  pussy  crept  along  as  well 
as  she  could  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  road,  and 
did  not  see  another  house  for  some  time,  *  and 
only  one  or  two  teams,  with  their  drivers  all 
muffled  in  great  coats  driving  to  market.  She 
climbed  up  on  a  load  of  wood  that  was  in  one 
of  them,  and  the  driver  was  so  kind  as  not  to 
touch  her,  but  let  her  ride  unmolested.  At  last 
they  passed  a  butcher's  cart,  which  was  stand- 
ing by  the  door  of  a  farm  house,  just  ready  to 
go  to  market.  Pussy  smelled  the  meat  and 
quickly  jumped  down  and  ran  to  the  cart.  Be- 
fore the  butcher  saw  her,  she  had  seized  a  little 
bit,  but  at  that  moment  he  discovered  the  thief, 


36  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

and  set  his  dog  at  her,  and  away  she  scamper- 
ed, but  kept  the  meat  in  her  mouth  till  she  ran 
up  a  tree  where  the  dog  could  not  reach  her,  and 
there  she  sat  and  eat  it  up.  This  made  her 
feel  a  little  better,  but  she  was  still  hungry. 
Thus  she  roamed  about  without  friends  or  home 
and  with  very  little  food,  till  she  reached  the 
city.  There  she  got  down  to  the  wharves  and 
found  her  way  into  a  ship. 

The  sailors  saw  her  come  on  board  and  did 
not  drive  her  back*',  because  they  think  it  good 
luck  to  have  a  cat  come  on  board  when  they 
were  going  to  sail.  One  of  them  seemed  to  have 
a  greater  liking  for  cats  than  the  others,  and  al- 
ways fed  her  from  his  own  mess. 

Puss  had  some  slight  recollection  of  a  ship 
and  scon  felt  at  home  and  happy .,  and  resolved 
not  to  quit  her  friends  again.  The  sailors  used 
often  to  play  with  her  and  set  her  on  deck,  to 
tell  what  the  weather  was  going  to  bo. — It  is 
said  that  when  it  is  going  to  rain,  cats  will  sit 
and  stroke  their  faces  wi;h  their  paws.  This 
may  be  true  and  it  is  probably  owing  to  some 
peculiar  sensation  which  a  moist  atmosphere 
(such  as  prevails  before  rain)  produces  in 
them. 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  35 

The  ship  was  gone  several  months,  and  then 
returned  to  the  same  port  from  which  it  sailed. 
When  it  arrived  all  the  men  were  glad  to  jump 
on  shore  as  soon  as  they  could  get  permission. 
The  sailor  who  had  been  so  fond  of  our  cat. 
took  her  in  his  arms,  and  set  her  down  on  the 
wharf;  but  she  leaped  directly  back,  and  would 
not  quit  the  ship.  This  man  however  seemed 
determined  to  have  her,  and  put  her  in  a  bag, 
with  only  a  little  hole  in  it  for  the  air  to  come 
in,  and  swinging  it  over  his  shoulder  carried 
her  off. 

During  all  this  time  dame  Trot  was  very  sol- 
itary and  seldom  saw  a  human  being.  O.ice 
in  a  while  one  of  her  nearest  neighbors  would 
wade  through  the  snow  to  see  her,  and  inquire 
if  she  wanted  any  ihfng,  and  as  this  was  an  un- 
usually severe  winter,  at  last,  he  invited  her  tc 
come  to  his  house,  and  live  in  his  family  a  few 
weeks,  till  the  snow  went  off,  for  he  really  fear- 
ed she  might  suffer  and  even  die  alone.  The 
dame  after  much  urging  consented — but  as  Par- 
mer Clap  (this  was  his  name)  had  a  numerous 
though  well  regulated  household,  the  noise  and 
confusion  of  the  busy  scene  fatigued  the  old 


33  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

lady,  who  often  longed  for  her  quiet  hut.  She 
was  sensible  however  of  the  kindness  of  the 
farmer  and  his  family,  and  made  herself  quite 
useful  among  them;  she  knit  socks  for  the  chil- 
dren, rocked  the  cradle,  and  read  aloud  in  the 
Bible,  during  the  long  evenings.  As  soon  how- 
ever as  the  snow  began  to  melt  she  requested 
to  be  carried  back.  She  employed  herself,  in 
putting  her  humble  habitation  in  order  after  her 
long  absence.  Twice  a»,day  she  put  on  her 
spectacles  and  read  a  chapter  in  her  Bible,  and 
prayed  to  God  to  take  care  of  her  son,  and  to 
suffer  her  old  eyes  once  more  to  be  blessed 
with  the  sight  of  him.  Scarcely  a  day  passed 
that  she  did  not  think  of  her  lost  cat,  and  some- 
times she  felt  very  sad  and  almost  feared  that 
Thomas  was  lost  also,  for  she  had  not  heard  a 
word  from  him  since  he  left  her.  Not  that  he 
neglected  to  write  to  his  old  mother,  but  the 
letters  did  not  reach  her. 

The  winter  passed,  and  spring  was  coming 
on;  the  grass  looked  green,  and  the  violets  were 
peeping  forth  their  blue  heads  around  the  old 
dame's  hut.  She  had  planted  some  lettuce  in  a 
box  placed   in  the  sun,   where  it  had  already 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  39 

grown  quite  large.  Perhaps,  said  she,  by  the  time 
it  is  fit  to  gather,  Thomas  may  return  to  £at 
some  of  it.  How  he  will  relish  it  after  living  so 
long  on  salt  meat,  at  sea. 

One  day  when  dame  Trot  was  weeding  and 
watering  her  lettuce,  she  thought  she  heard 
footsteps,  an  unusual  sound,  and  looking  up  she 
beheld  her  dear  son  by  her  side.  '  Heaven  be 
praised!'  exclaimed  the  old  dame,  her  eyes  run- 
ning over  with  tears,  '  here  you  are  Tom,  safe 
and  sound.'  'Yes,  mother,  and  have  made  a 
prosperous  voyage,  and  brought  you  a  world  of 
good  things.  My  chest  is  coming  out  in  neigh- 
bor Clap's  waggon. 

'Thank  you  Tom,  you  are  a  blessing  to  your 
old  mother,  and  Heaven  will  reward  you  for 
it.  The  richest  lady  in  the  land  might  envy 
me  my  son.     But  what  is  in  that  bag?' 

1  O  I  guess  you  will  think  you  are  going  to 
have  a  family  of  cats.  But  it  is  another  cat, 
who  came  on  board  our  ship  just  as  we  sailed, 
and  the  creature  took  such  a  liking  to  me,  and 
looked  so  much  like  the  kitten  1  saved,  that  1 
would  have  her,  although  she  was  so  attached 
to  the  ship  I  was  obliged  to  tie  her  up  in  this 


tO  DAYS    OF   SICKNESS. 

ag  to  prevent  her  getting  back;  here  she  is,' 
or  while  he  was  speaking  he  had  untied  the 
bag,  and  out  jumped  the  cat  glad  enough  to 
get  free. 

'  V\  hy  Thomas  it  is  the  very  kitten  herself, 
said  the  dame,  '  I  know  her  by  the  two  brown 
spots  on  her  back.  How  glad  I  am  to  see  her. 
She  ran  away  six  months  ago  and  1  never  ex- 
pected to  lay  eyes  on  her  again.' 

'Well  that  is  strange,  I  declare,'  said  Thomas, 
c  when  she  came  on  board  we  took  to  one  anoth- 
er at  once. 

The  old  dame  lifted  pussy  up  in  her  lap, 
stroked  her,  gave  her  some  milk  from  the  same 
saucer  she  used  to  be  fed  in,  (which  had  a  lit- 
tle piece  broken  out  of  the  edge,  and  was  al- 
ways reserved  for  pussy,)  and  told  her  she 
hoped  she  would  never  run  away  agnin.  Could 
the  cat  have  spoken,  she  would  have  thanked 
her,  for  the  milk  was  very  grateful,  and  prom- 
ised ne\( r  to  quit  her  mistress  again.  And  she 
might  also  have  said  that  she  had  learned  this 
lesson  by  her  wanderings,  never  to  desert  old 
friends  in  search  of  new. 

*  Is  that  a  true  story,  mother,'  said  Lucy,  'or 
did  you  only  make  it  up  to  amuse  me  ? ' 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  41 

*  It  is  one  of  my  own  invention,'  answered 
Mrs  Arnold.  '  I  can  only  say  it  is  not  an  un- 
natural or  improbable  story, — but  not  that  it  re- 
ally happened.  I  hope  it  has  dispelled  some 
of  your  unpleasant  fancies.'  c  O  yes,  1  think 
now  I  can  go  to  sleep.  I  hope  you  will 
dUo.' 

'Yes,  Lucy,  I  will;  T  shall  lie  down  by  your 
side  and  then  if  you  wish  anything  you  can  ea- 
sily rouse  me. 

As  soon  as  Mrs  Arnold  had  rested  her  head 
on  ihe  pi  low  beside  her  sick  daughter,  believ- 
ing her  not  to  be  in  immediate  want  of  her  at- 
tention, she  dropped  to  sleep,  for  she  was  great- 
ly exhausted  by  watching  and  anxiety. 

Lucy  was  less  fortunate;  the  restlessness  and 
the  unpleasant  images  which  the  narration  of  the 
story  had  for  a  lime  banished,  began  to  return; 
and  her  first  thought  was  to  awaken  her  mo- 
ther; but  being  a  considerate  little  girl  and  care- 
ful for  others  comfort  as,  well  as  her  own,  she 
immediately  recollected  how  important  rest 
was  to  her,  and  resolved  if  possible  not  to  dis- 
turb her.  It  occurred  to  Lucy  that  as  the  story 
had  diverted  her   attention  from  herself,  if  she 


42  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

endeavoured  to  recall  it  and  imagine  herself  re- 
peating it  to  her  brother,  this  might  keep  her 
mind  calm.  She  remembered  that  once  when 
she  had  the  toothach,  her  mother  advised  her 
to  repeat  to  herself  some  of  the  little  hymns 
and  poems  she  had  learned,  and  having  done 
so  it  turned  her  attention  from  the  pain.  In- 
stead therefore  of  asking  her  mother  to  repeat 
the  story  of  the  cat,  or  tell  another,  she  tried  to 
amuse  herself  and  imagined  herself  telling  it  to 
Robert.  This  employment  proved  tranquilizing 
and  before  she  had  come  to  the  end,  she  too  fell 
asleep,  and  when  she  awoke  she  found  herself 
much  refreshed,  and  had  the  happiness  to  see 
her  mother  sitting  up  by  her  side  and  looking 
less  fatigued  than  she  had  done  before. 

Shortly  after,  Robert's  noisy  step  and 
cheerful  voice  were  heard  in  the  passage,  and 
he  entered  the  room,  saying,  c  School  is  done, 
how  is  Lucy,  mother?  where  is  my  ball;  I  ana 
going  on  the  Common  to  play  ball,  may  I  spend 
my  ninepence  for  a  bat?'     All  in  a  breath. 

'  Not  so  fast,  my  son.  Lucy  is  better,  I  am 
glad  you  have  come  in  just  at  this  time.  The 
doctor  says  she  may  eat  an  orange  to  day:  John 


DATS    OF    SICKNESS.  43 

is  very  much  engaged  in  some  necessary  work, 
and  1  wish  you  to  go  to  Court  street  and  buy 
some  oranges. 

R.  What!  all  the  way  down  there?  why 
can  not  I  get  them   at  Mr  Adams's  close  by. 

Mrs  A.  He  has  none  that  are  sweet,  I 
have  just  sent  there. 

R.  Well,  then  I  can  not  play  bat  and  ball, 
for  it  will  be  dinner  time  when  T  get  back. 

Mrs  A.  I  think  you  will  have  an  hour  to 
play  after  your  return,  it  is  not  much  after  12 
o'clock — but  if  you  do  not,  are  you  not  willing 
to  give  up  one  game  of  bat  and  ball  to  oblige 
your  sister  who  is  so  sick? 

R.  I  have  to  be  in  school  all  day,  and  I 
want  to  play,  in  playing  time. 

Mrs  A.  I  shall  not  urge  you,  because  I 
wish  your  attention  to  your  sister  to  be  volun- 
tary, not  from  compulsion.  I  can  assure  you 
however  that  if  you  go  out  to  play,  you  will 
feel  that  you  are  not  doing  right  and  be  less  hap- 
py than  if  you  went  first  for  the  oranges. 

R.     Well  I  suppose  I  must  go. 

Mrs  A.  No  1  leave  it  entirely  to  your  own 
determination  to  go  for  the  oranges,  or  to  play, 
as  you  choose.' 


44  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

Robert  took  his  ball  out  of  the  drawer  and 
walked  slowly  out  of  the  room.  Lucy  looked 
disappointed,  'cannot  1  have  the  orange  till  af- 
ter dinner?'  said  she. 

'  Yes,'  answered  her  mother  '  I  shall  not  imi- 
tate your  brother,  but  put  myself  to  the  incon- 
venience of  sending  John.' 

'If  Robert  had  ever  been  sick,  he  would 
have  gone,  do  not  you  think  he  would,  mother?' 
*  I  trust  so; — our  own  sufferings  lead  us  to  feel 
for  the  sufferings  of  others;  and  thus  what  at 
first  view  might  appear  to  have  the  effect  of 
making  us  think  most  of  ourselves,  is  so  wisely 
ordered  as  to  lead  us  to  a  consideration  of 
others.  U  we  avail  ourselves  of  these  occa- 
sions of  improvement,  (for  as  I  have  often  told 
you  we  must  do  our  part)  sickness  will  be  the 
means  of  cultivating  a  disinterested  and  benev- 
olent disposition.' 

As  she  spoke  these  words,  Robert  entered, 
not  with  his  usual  animated  manner,  but  slow- 
ly and  softly,  and  coming  up  to  his  mother 
said,  '  May  I  go  for  the  oranges  ? ' 

His  mother  made  no  remarks  on  hie  late  be- 
haviour,   willing  to  encourage  by  her  appro- 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  45 

bation  the  slightest  impulses  to  virtue,  and 
giving  him  the  money  said  *  yes,  Lucy  will 
thank  you,  I  am  persuaded.' 

Robert  did  not  wait  to  hear  whether  Lucy 
thanked  him  or  not,  but  skipped  out  of  the 
room,  and  soon  returned  with  a  basket  of  fine 
Havana  oranges.  'There  Lucy,'  said  he, 
'are  not  these  good.  1  told  Mr  Carter  that 
they  were  for  my  sister  and  she  was  sick.  He 
said  I  should  have  the  sweetest  he  had,  because 
1  had  come  for  them  myself,  and  he  looked 
over  a  box  and  gave  me  these.  Will  you  cut 
one,  mother?  Here  Lucy,  try  it,  is  it  sweet  ? ' 
'Yes,  said  Lucy,  it  is  the  first  thing  that  has  tas- 
ted good  since  I  have  been  sick.  Give  Rob- 
ert one,  will  you  mother? ' 

4  Yes,'  said  her  mother,  'and  in  return,  Rob- 
ert, you  must  tell  me  which  has  made  you  most 
happy,  p!a\  ing  ball  or  going  for  the  oranges. 
'  O  going  for  the  oranges  mother,  I  am  very  glad 
T  went  instead  of  John,  for  I  got  the  best  out 
of  a  whole  box,  because  1  came  for  my  sis- 
ter.' 

i  Experience  is  a  more  succesful  teacher  than 
precept,'  said  Mrs  Arnold.  'When  I  told  you 
that  you  would  not  be  happy  if  you  followedyour 


46  DAYS  OF  SICKNESS. 

own  selfish  desires,  you  would  not  believe  me: 
now  you  have  felt  that  what  I  said  is  true.' 

Lucy  continued  to  suffer  very  much,  and  her 
patience  was  exhausted  more  than  once.  'O 
mother,  she  said,  how  badly  I  feel;  when  shall  I 
get  well  ?  I  am  tired  of  lying  in  bed.'  'My  dear 
Lucy,'  answered  her  mother,  (do  not  complain  if 
you  can  possibly  avoid  it:  this  will  aggravate 
your  distress.  Your  heavenly  Father  taketh 
care  of  you,  and  will  restore  you  to  health 
when  he  thinks  best.  Endeavor  to  engage  your 
mind  in  reflecting  on  the  comforts  with  which 
you  are  surrounded — your  mother  constantly 
by  your  side,  and  many  others  ready  to  attend 
to  your  smallest  wants;  a  kind  and  skilful  phy- 
sician, who  does  all  in  his  power,  to  alleviate 
your  suffering?  and  effect  your  cure.  A  pleas- 
ant airy  apartment,  with  every  convenience  for 
your  bodily  comfort.  How  many  children  are 
there  at  this  moment  ill  with  the  measles  in 
close  noisy  rooms,  without  necessary  attend- 
ance, perhaps  even  without  a  mother  to  watch 
over  them  or  a  doctor  to  direct  the  best  meth- 
od of  treatment. — Their  sufferings  are  much 
aggravated,  and  in  some  instances  their  lives  sac- 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  47 

rificed,  for  want  of  proper  care.  You  must 
thank  God  for  his  goodness  to  you,  and  pray  to 
him  to  give  you  a  submissive  spirit.'  'I  do,  moth- 
er,' said  Lucy,  'and  I  will  try  to  wait  patiently 
till  he  pleases  to  make  me  well.  I  wish  I  could 
think  of  something  that  I  could  do  without  see- 
ing. How  do  blind  people  employ  themselves? 
I  would  not  be  blind  for  the  world.' 

Mrs  Arnold  replied,  'It  is  a  great  calamity  to 
be  blind,  and  yet  it  is  said  that  the  blind  are 
usually  cheerful.  They  meet  with  much  kind- 
ness and  consideration,  and  they  are  more  grate- 
ful for  attention  than  those  are  who  need  it  less. 
There  is  no  affliction  which  if  it  be  endured 
in  the  right  spirit,  may  not  improve  our  charac- 
ter, and  thus  become  a  blessing. 

'I  once  knew  a  little  blind  girl  named  Amy 
Bennet,  who  was  one  of  the  most  generous,  af- 
fectionate, pious  characters  I  have  ever  known! 
she  was  naturally  ingenious  and  good  tempered. 
She  lost  her  sight  by  the  measles  when  she  was 
ten  years  old.  She  retained  a  distinct  recollec- 
tion of  what  she  had  seen,  this  added  to  her 
pleasures  and  her  means  of  employment,  but  also 
increased  her  regret.     Her  mother  was  an    in. 


48  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

valid  and  this  child  was  her  sole  nurse.  Amy 
had  one  brother  \ounger  than  herself,  who  after 
he  had  learned  lo  read  at  a  Sunday  school  used 
to  read  to  her.  And  ihis  was  a  mutual  benefit, 
as  his  sister  thus  gained  knowledge  ;md  he 
profited  by  her  remarks,  and  his  interest  in  what 
he  read  was  increased  by  her  sympathy  and 
instructions. 

Amy's  mind  being  deprived  of  exercise  on 
objects  without,  was  the  more  active  in  its  in- 
ternal operations.  Her  memory  was  astonish- 
ing, so  that  after  her  brother  had  read  a  chap- 
ter in  the  Bible  or  a  story  she  could  always  re- 
peat the  substance  of  it  to  her  mother,  who  ap- 
peared to  enjoy  it  more  in  the  words  of  her 
daughter,  than  out  of  the  book. 

When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  often  visited  her 
with  my  mother.  .1  never  heard  her  complain, 
never  saw  her  idle;  she  used  to  wind  thread  and 
silk  for  the  neighbors;  knit  stockings,  net  pur- 
ses and  bags.  She  would  cut  out  letters  on 
bits  of  wood,  which  she  could  distinguish  by 
feeling  and  compose  words  of  them  for  her  own 
amusement,  or  to  teach  her  brother  to  spell,  by 
the  game  which  you  know  we  often  play,    of 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 


49 


-j^y^^'n 


Tv^— 


making  out  the  word  from  the  letters  thrown 
promiscuously  together.  She  always  made 
her  mother's  bed,— she  cou'd  :*ing  sweetly  and 
play  tunes  on  the  Jew's- harp  the  only  instrument 
which  (as  she  was  poor)  she  co>  Id  afford  to  b*;y. 
A  young  lady  who  lived  near  i.?r,  had  a 
flageolet  on  which  sli3  301  etimes  pliye  !,  nd 
being  t>ld  that  the  bl  nd  girl  was  foi'ld  of  music, 
sent  for  her  to  come  and  hear  it.  Amy  '3  pleas- 
ure was  very  great  and  sh  :  xpressed  it  so  en- 
thusiastically that  the  young  lady  was  much  af- 
fected and  gave  her  the  flageolet  and  some  in- 
struction in  p'ay  ug  on  it,  aid  I  remember, 
she  told  me  that  her  flageolet  had  never  af- 
forded her  so  much  delight  as  at  the  moment 


50  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

she  presented  it  to  the  blind  girl.  Music  is 
sweet,  but  the  emotions  of  benevolence  and 
sympathy  are  far  sweeter. 

Amy,  as  I  have  told  you,  took  care  of  her 
sick  mother,  who  wras  often   confined   to  her 
bed.     By  her  mother's  directions,  and  what  as- 
sistance she  could  obtain  from  her  little  brother 
she  managed  all  the  household  concerns,  cook- 
ed the  food,  washed  the  clothes  and  kept  every 
article  of  furniture  neat  and  in  order;  her  moth- 
er being  able  only  to  do  what  little  sewing  was 
requisite.     Amy  was  fortunate  in    being   thus 
poor,  I  might  almost  say  in  being  blind;  since 
these  circumstances  exercised  and   developed 
her  faculties,  furnished  her  with  that  necessary 
employment  which  is  the  best  security  against 
discontent  and  led  her  early  to   think  of  God, 
to  whom  the  needy  and  afflicted  never  turn  in 
vain. 

I  have  seen  many  a  child  in  the  full  possession 
of  all  its  senses,  surrounded  with  friends  and 
competence,  who  possessed  neither  the  knowl- 
edge, the  virtue  nor  the  content  of  this  little 
blind  girl,  and  who  might  have  changed  with 
her  to  advantage. 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  51 

'But  mother,  said  Lucy,  'I  should  be  very  sor- 
ry to  be  blind,— ought  I  not  to  feel  so? ' 

'Assuredly  you  may;  there  is  nothing  wrong 
in  the  feeling ;  we  are  never  to  put  ourselves 
in  the  way  of  suffering  ;  but  when  our  heavenly 
Father  sends  these  trials  upon  us,  we  know 
that  they  are  designed  for  our  good,  and  so  they 
will  always  prove,  if  we  endure  them  with  sub- 
mission and  patience.' 

'  Is  it  not  a  fine  day,  mother,'  said  Lucy,  '  I 
think  there  is  a  gleam  of  sunshine  through 
my  curtain,  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  see  the  sun, 
and  walk  out  again.' 

'  Yes,  you  will  fully  realize  the  pleasure  of 
health,'  said  Mrs  Arnold,  'of  being  able  to  skip 
about  in  the  open  air,  and  go  to  school.' 

'  I  shall  like  to  go  to  school  better  than  ever,' 
returned  Lucy.  '  1  believe  it  is  three  or  four 
days  since  you  were  out,  mother;  I  wTish  you 
would  take  a  walk,  it  would  do  you  good  and 
I  can  be  with  Margaret;  she  will  read  to  me, 
her  eyes  are  strong  and  she  likes  to  read  my 
little  books.' 

'  I  will  go,  if  you  are  contented  to  be  left  with 
Margaret,  but  you  must  keep   quiet  and  not 


52  DATS    OF    SICKNESS. 

talk  much  with  her,  for  excitement  will  increase 
your  fever  and  perhaps  bring  on  the  delirium.' 

Mrs  Arnold  called  the  maid  and  gave  her 
directions  concerning  Lucy  and  then  went  out; 
for  she  knew  that  air  and  exercise  were  ne- 
cessary to  enable  her  to  bear  the  fatigue  and 
anxiety  of  her  daughter's  sick  chamber. 

When  she  returned  she  found  every  thing  as 
she  wished,  and  the  succeeding  night  was  bet- 
ter than  any  one  previous. 

Lucy  is  now  decidedly  getting  well.  Her 
complexion  is  beginning  to  recover  its  natural 
hue,  and  her  eyes  can  bear  a  linle  light,  still 
she  cannot  use  tliem>    even  to  look  a!  pictures. 

This  morning,  Robert  came  home  as  soon 
as  school  was  done,  and  s ".id,  '  1  should  like  to 
read  to  Lucv,  instead  of  2:01112;  on  the  Common 
to  play;  here  is  the  new  bonk  grandpapa  gave 
me,  about   insects;  it  is  very  interesting.' 

His  mother  accepted  the  proposal,  and 
Lucy  said  '  I  have  been  wish'ng  to  read  this 
book  ever  since  you  received  it.' 

'I  will  take  my  work  and  sit  by  the  window, 
said  Mrs  Arnold,  for  I  should  like  10  hear  it  also. 
Draw  the  head  curtain  of  Lucy's  bed,  Robert* 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  53 

so  as  to  skreen  the  light  from  her  eyes,  and 
let  it  fall  on  your  book.' 

Robert  read  in  an  easy  pleasant  manner,  for 
he  understood  every  word  of  it.  His  mother 
had  never  allowed  him  to  read  any  thing  that 
he  did  not  understand  when  it  could  be  avoided, 
and  thus  he  had  not  acquired  the  monotonous 
manner  of  reading  usual  with  children,  and 
even  many  grown  people. 

Robert  read  several  very  curious  accounts 
of  the  habits  of  insects  and  their  mode  of  con- 
structing their  nests,  and  looked  behind  the 
curtain  to  see  how  Lucy  liked  them — then  shut- 
ting his  book  he  stepped  very  softly  across  the 
room  to  his  mother,  and  whispered,  '  Lucy 
is  asleep,  I  have  read  her  to  sleep,  1  had  bet- 
ter not  read  any  more  now.' 

'No,  you  are  a  thoughtful  good  boy,'  said 
Mrs  Arnold,  '  to  be  so  careful  not  to  waken 
her.  Now  run  out  to  your  play,  I  am  sure  you 
will  enjoy  it,  because  you  have  been  good.' 

Robert  opened  the  door  carefully.     His  mo- 
ther did   not   hear  his   footsteps,   but  looking 
out  of  the  window,  presently  saw  him  bounding 
across  the  Common  like  a  fawn. 
3 


64  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

Mrs  Arnold  felt  happy,  and  said  in  her  heart, 
Robert  has  sensibility  and  right  feeling,  and 
though  thoughtless  and  passionate  I  begin  to 
hope  that  1  shall  in  the  end  train  him  to  habits 
of  disinterestedness  and  reflection.  This  will 
be  much  harder  than  with  Lucy,  who  always 
regards  the  feelings  of  others. 

Such  reflections  passed  often  through  Mrs 
Arnold's  mind.  Her  husband  had  been  dead 
several  years,  and  her  chief  concern  was  to 
perform  her  duty  faithfully  and  successfully 
in  the  bringing  up  of  those  precious  children 
Heaven  had  confided  to  her  charge. 

Lucy  awoke  from  her  nap  so  much  refresh- 
ed, that  her  moiher  thought  she  might  venture 
to  send  for  her  little  friend  and  schoolmate  Eliz- 
abeth, to  pass  an  hour  with  her. 

Elizabeth  was  a  pleasant  well  behaved  child, 
and  never  noisy  or  troublesome. 

She  came.  Lucy  was  rejoiced  to  see  her, 
and  asked  her  many  questions  about  her  school- 
mates, and  how  far  they  had  got  on  in  their 
studies,  particularly  their  geography,  *  in 
which,'  said  she,  '  I  am  sorry  to  be  so  far  be- 
hind you  all.' 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  55 

4 1  dare  say  you  will  get  up  with  us  in  a 
week.  You  can  get  two  lessons  while  the  others 
get  one.  I  wish  1  had  as  good  a  memory  as 
you  have.     I  never  can  remember  anything.' 

'  Your  memory  may  be  better  than  you  im- 
agine,' said  Mrs  Arnold.  '  Perhaps  you  do  not 
give  all  your  attention  to  what  you  are  studying; 
do  not  you  think  of  something  else  at  the  time, 
Elizabeth  ? ' 

4 1  suppose  I  do,  but  how  can  T  help  it  ? ' 

'  It  may  be  that  you  are  not  sufficiently  de- 
sirous of  helping  it,'  replied  Mrs  Arnold.  '  We 
are  sure  to  remember  what  we  are  much  inter- 
ested in.  If  I  were  to  promise  you  a  new  book 
on  condition  that  you  came  in  for  it  tomorrow, 
precisely  at  two  o'clock,  1  dare  say  you  would 
be  here  at  the  moment.' 

4  O  yes,  I  should  think  of  it  all  the  time  and 
look  at  the  dock.' 

4  Just  so,'  said  Mrs  Arnold,  'if  you  thought 
of  your  lesson  and  looked  at  your  book  with  an 
earnest  desire  to  get  the  lesson  correctly,  you 
would  not  fail  to  remember  it.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  when  Lucy  is  well  enough  to  go  to  school, 
she  will  have  very  little  additional  trouble  in 


56  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

getting  double  lessons,  because  she  will  be  ex- 
cited by  the  desire  to  overtake  her  class.' 

1  But  do  not  you  think  that  there  is  a  differ- 
ence in  memories  ? '  said  Elizabeth. 

'Undoubtedly,  some  persons  have  better 
memories  than  others,  but  deficiencies  of  this 
sort  are  more  easily  supplied  by  attention  and 
a  desire  to  do  well,  than  children  are  aware  of.' 

Elizabeth's  mind  was  excited  by  these  re- 
marks, and  they  were  of  lasting  advantage  to 
her.  The  idea  that  she  could,  if  she  made  an 
effort,  equal  those  in  her  class,  who  had  always 
surpassed  her,  was  new  and  pleasing,  and  stim- 
ulated her  effectually.  The  delight  of  her  pa- 
rents and  teacher,  and  the  rewards  and  praises 
she  received,  furnished  additional  inducements 
to  her  to  continue  her  exertions  ;  till  the  habit 
of  giving  her  entire  attention  to  whatever  she 
was  upon  became  fixed,  and  she  attained  a  su- 
periority which  her  friends,  or  even  herself  had 
never  anticipated. 

Ms  Arnold  was  constantly  throwing  out 
such  hints  and  good  advice  to  the  young  peo- 
ple who  visited  her  children,  and  the  good  she 
did  in  this  way  was  incalculable. 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  57 

Lucy  and  Elizabeth  now  began  to  converse 
about  their  own  affairs.  Mrs  Arnold  left  them 
wholly  to  themselves,  knowing  that  the  restraint 
imposed  by  older  persons  represses  the  natural 
flow  of  the  affections,  and  checks  the  graceful- 
ness of  spontaneous  communication.  If  she 
noticed  any  feelings  or  expressions  that  needed 
correction,  she  did  not  interfere  at  the  time, 
but  reserved  her  admonition  for  another  and 
more  favorable  occasion.  In  about  an  hour 
Elizabeth  took  her  leave.  The  remainder  of 
the  day  was  passed  quietly  by  Lucy,  who  re- 
quired no  other  gratification  than  the  delightful 
feeling  of  returning  bej,l  h.  This  evenn^r  was 
Saturday.  Lucy  asked  her  mother  to  tell  her 
a  true  story  and  to  let  Robert  come  up  and  sit 
with  her  and  hear  it  also. 

(  Now,'  said  Mrs  Arnold,  '  T  will  tell  you  a 
story  you  have  heard  before,  rnd  I  am  curious 
to  know  which  of  you  will  first  recognize  it.' 

c  What  is  the  name  ?'  s;  id  Lucy. 

1  You  shall  chose  a  name  after  you  have 
heard  it.' 

1  But  if  it  is  a  true  story,'  replied  Lucy,  'it 
must  have  a  name.' 

•     4 


58  days  or  SICKNESS. 

'  Well  then,'  said  her  mother,  '  you  can  call 
it,  maternal  solicitude,  —or,  the  rescued  child, 
— or,  the  favored  of  Heaven;  for  either  will  be 
a  true  name.' 

4  Come  begin  mother,'  said  Robert,  'I  dare 
say  Lucy  will  find  out  first.' 

'  There  was  once  a  woman  who  lived  in  a  far 
distant  country, — this  country  was  ruled  by  a 
cruel  and  wicked  king.  If  the  poor  woman 
could  have  got  away,  and  lived  anywhere  else, 
she  would,  but  the  king  would  not  allow  her  or 
any  one  to  quit  the  kingdom  without  his  per- 
mission, and  she  was  obliged  to  stay  there,  as 
also  were  her  husband,  kindred  and  neighbors, 
and  work  very  hard  for  this  king,  who  was  even 
so  wicked  as  to  take  away  their  children  and 
kill  them.  This  woman  had  a  little  baby,  a 
son,  and  she  heard  that  the  king  intended  to 
send  some  one  to  take  it  away  from  her.  She 
was  exceedingly  distressed,  and  hid  it  some- 
where, 1  do  not  know  where,  but  in  a  place 
wThere  no  one  could  hear  it  cry.  The  people 
came  for  it,  but  could  not  find  it,  and  went 
away,  believing  she  had  no  son.  The  mother 
hid  it  in  this  way  several  months,  but  at  last  it 


DAYS  OF  SICKNESS.  59 

grew  so  big  and  could  cry  so   loud,    that  she 
could  not  conceal  it  any  longer;  and  she  was,  in- 
formed, that  the  servants  of  the  king  had   dis 
covered  that  she  had  a  son, and  were  coming  the 
next  day  to  take  him  from  her. 

How  sad  she  was,  and  how  she  wept  while 
she  looked  on  her  boy,  and  thought  that  she  must 
part  with  him!  Could  the  wicked  king  have 
known  what  she  felt ,  I  think  he  would  have 
relented. 

This  mother  however,  was  a  woman  of  piety 
as  well  as  tenderness.  She  did  not  sit  down 
in  despair,  but  prayed  to  God  to  instruct  and 
sustain  her.  A  plan  occurred  to  her  mind, 
which  appeared  to  offer  some  hope  of  preserv- 
ing the  child's  life.  She  constructed  a  basket 
of  reeds  and  lined  it  with  clay,  so  that  the  water 
could  not  get  in,  then  she  dressed  her  infant  as 
neatly  as  she  could,  and  kissed  his  soft  cheek 
and  smiling  mouth  over  and  over  again,  and 
wet  his  face  with  her  tears.  It  seemed  as  if 
her  heart  would  break,  as  she  laid  him  in  the 
basket,  and  felt  that  this  might  be  her  last  em- 
brace. She  took  the  basket  to  the  river  near, 
and  laid  it  in  the  flags  by  the    brink,  and   the 


60  DAYS  OF  SICKNESS. 

babe  soon  fell  asleep.  The  mother  had  a  kind 
daughter,  who  went  with  her  and  promised 
to  watch  the  child,  and  see  what  became  of  it. 
The  mother  returned  home  trusting  in  God. 
The  king's  servants  came  and  searched  in  vain 
for  the  child;  the  mother's  heart  was  relieved, 
as  she  looked  at  their  cruel  countenances,  and 
remembered  that  her  precious  babe  was  not  in 
their  hands.  Meantime  the  sister  remaining  at 
a  little  distance,  saw  some  females  walking 
along,  by  the  river  side,  and  perceived  that  it 
was  the  daughter  of  the  king  who  had  come 
down,  attended  by  her  maidens,  to  bathe;  as 
was  the  custom  of  that  country.  The  princess 
saw  the  basket  and  sent  her  maid  to  fetch  it. 
She  uncovered  it  and  beheld  the  child,  who 
seeing  strange  faces,  began  to  cry.  The  prin- 
cess did  not  resemble  her  cruel  father,  but  be- 
ing tender  h?arted,  was  moved  by  the  cries  of 
the  infant,  and  said  she  would  take  it  home  and 
bring  it  up  as  her  own  child.  All  this  time 
the  sister  was  watching  and  saw  every  thing 
that  passed,  and  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  She 
heard  the  princess  say,  i  I  must  have  a  nurse 
for  the  child/  and  then  she  ventured  to    come 


DAYS  OF    SICKNESS.  61 

forward,  and  ask  the  princess  if  she  would  al- 
low her  to  go  for  a  nurse.  Having  obtained 
permission  she  ran  for  the  child's  mother,  told 
her  all  that  had  happened,  and  brought  her  to 
the  king's  daughter,  who  put  the  child  into  her 
arms  and  charged  her  to  nurse  it  faithfully. 
The  mother  longed  to  press  him  to  her  heart, 
and  could  hardly  restrain  her  tears. 

As  soon  as  she  was  alone  with  her  son,  she 
kissed  him  with  rapture,  and  thanked  God  with 
fervent  gratitude  for  his  merciful  Providence, 
in  not  only  restoring  her  child  to  her  arms, 
but  in  providing  for  him  so  fortunate  a  lot,  and 
so  able  a  protector.  She  had  trusted  to  her 
Heavenly  Father,  and  he  had  not  deserted  her. 
How  deeply  did  she  reverence  and  adore  his 
power  and  goodness. — This  child  whose  life 
was  so  wonderfully  preserved,  grew  up  to  be 
one  of  the  greatest  and  best  men  that  ever  lived.' 

'  O!  it  was  Moses,'  said  Robert,  '  Moses  in 
the  bulrushes;  did  not  you  think  of  it  Luey?J 
i  Yes  but  not  till  mother  had  told  a  great  deal, 
not  till  the  king's  daughter  came  to  the  river 
side.' 

Lucy  and  Robert  remained  conversing  with 
5 


62  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

their  mother,  more  than  an  hour  before  tliey 
went  to  bed,  and  she  related  to  them  most  of 
the  remarkable  events  in  the  life  of  Moses,  and 
the  journeyings  of  the  Israelites  in  the  desert, 
before  they  reached  the  promised  land.  She 
made  many  explanations,  which  as  it  gave  clear- 
ness to  their  ideas,  increased  their  interest  in 
these  miraculous  histories. 

The  next  day  being  Sunday,  Lucy  said  c  she 
supposed  she  should  pass  much  of  it  alone,  as 
she  was  now  so  far  recovered  that  it  was  not 
necessary  for  her  mother  to  remain  at  home  on 
her  account.' 

4  What  I  shall  do,r  said  she,  '  all  this  long 
morning  1  do  not  know,  for  I  cannot  use  my 
eyes  yet.' 
'I  shall  only  be  abseni  about  two  hours,  said  her 
mother  ;  '  I  trust  you  will  find  enough  to  think 
of  to  employ  that  time  well.  You  are  just  re- 
covering from  a  severe  and  what  has  to  many 
proved  a  fatal  disease,  and  your  heart  ought  to 
be  filled  with  thankfulness  to  God,  who  has  pre- 
served your  life,  and  restored  you  to  health. 
You  will  I  am  sure  pray  to  him  and  thank  him 
for  his  goodness  when   you  are  alone,  and  en- 


DAYS    OF     SICKNESS.  63 

deavor  to  call  to  mind  what  peculiar  blessings 
you  have  experienced,  and  what  good  things 
you  possess,  which  you  have  not  prized  as 
highly  as  you  ought.' 

'  How  do  you  mean,  mother?' 

c  Your  sight  for  instance.  Have  you  ever 
before  reflected  on  the  value  of  this  gift,  or 
been  sufficiently  grateful  that  you  were  not  de- 
prived of  it.' 

£  No,  but  I  have  thought  of  it  often  since  I 
have  been  shut  up  in  this  dark  room,  and  there 
are  many  other  things  like  this  that  I  remember 
now.5 

'  Well,  endeavor,'  said  Mrs  Arnold,  '  to  em- 
ploy your  mind  on  this  subject  while  I  am  gone, 
and  tell  me  on  my  return  what  blessings  have 
been  brought  to  your  mind  and  inspired  your 
gratitude,  by  this  short  illness.  Margaret  reads 
very  well,  and  will  rear!  the  Bible  to  you.' 

The  time  did  not  pass  heavily  with  Lucy. 
She  adopted  her  mother's  plan;  who  was  pleas- 
ed with  the  account  she  received  from  her  of 
her  morning's  reflections.  '  If  I  could  have  us- 
ed my  eyes,  mother,  I  should  have  tried  to 
make  out  a  list,  but   I  had   so  many  thoughts 


64  DAYS    OF  SICKNESS. 

that  I  dare  say  I  should  not  have  been  able  to 
write  them  half  down  ;  because  I  write  so  slowly. 
I  wish  I  could  write  as  fast  as  you  do,  mother.' 

1  This  ease,'  said  Mrs  Arnold,  c  is  owing  to 
practise  ;  the  more  you  write  the  sooner  you 
will  acquire  it.  Shall  1  write  down  your 
thoughts  for  you  ?' 

4  If  you  please,  mother.' 

With  a  few  alterations  and  corrections,  Mrs 
Arnold  wrote  what  Lucy  had  told  her,  in  a  little 
book  she  kept  for  such  purposes.  This  book 
contained  notes  of  interesting  conversations 
she  had  at  any  time  held  with  her  children  ; 
suggestions  on  education,  that  arose  in  her  mind 
from  her  daily  experience  and  observation^ 
stories  she  had  related  for  their  instruction  and 
amusement;  and  anecdotes  and  incidents  of  real 
life.  It  is  from  this  book  that  we  have  drawn 
the  present  work, 

SUNDAY  MORNING  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  LITTLE  GIRL 
WHO  WAS    RECOVERING  FROM  A   SHORT  ILLNESS, 

The  first  thing  I  am  grateful  for  is  the  know- 
ledge of  my  heavenly  Father,  for  it  ma^es  me 


DAYS  OF    SICKNESS.  65 

happier  and  better,  and  I  love  to  thank  him  for 
all  his  goodness;  when  1  suffer,  I  can  bear  it 
better  if  J  remember  that  he  designs  it  for  my 
benefit.  Next  is  my  mother,  she  loves  me  so 
much,  that  she  is  kind  to  me  even  when  I  do 
wrong;  how  much  more  1  should  have  suffered 
in  my  illness  if  my  dear  mother  had  not  been 
by  to  comfort  and  amuse  me.  Then  my  broth- 
er, who  is  a  pleasant  kind  companion  and  loves 
me  as  well  as  I  do  him.  All  my  little  friends 
and  playmates,  and  my  good  teacher,  who  is 
so  patient  in  instructing  us.  My  sight,  without 
which  I  should  lose  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
those  I  love,  and  the  sky  and  the  flowers,  and 
the  power  of  walking  about  by  myself.  If  I 
were  to  lose  my  hearing  I  could  not  converse 
with  my  friends.  I  am  thankful  for  health  and 
liberty  and  that  I  am  not  always  shut  up  in  a 
dark  room  as  1  have  been  this  last  week,  but 
can  walk  out, ride  into  the  country, and  run  about 
the  gelds  and  garden.  The  pleasures  of  know- 
ledge are  very  great;  how  many  curious,  beauti- 
ful things  there  are  in  the  world  to  study  and 
become  acquainted  with,  but  I  have  not  time  to 


66  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

tell  half  of  them.  Then  there  is  the  satisfaction  I 
feel  when  I  have  done  right.  I  hope  I  shall 
become  every  day  more  watchful  of  my  own 
conduct,  more  kind  to  others,  more  obedient  to 
my  mother,  and  more  pious  and  grateful  to  my 
heavenly  Father.' 

Mrs  Arnold  read  this  to  Lucy,  after  she  had 
written  it,  who  said  it  was  very  much  like  what 
she  had  told  her,  but  not  exactly. 

'The  ideas  are  the  same,'  said  her  mother; 
4  but  I  have  arranged  them  a  little  differently  and 
have  altered  a  few  expressions  which  were  awk- 
ward. And  now,'  said  she,  c  Lucy,  I  am  going 
down  to  dinner,  and  I  shall  send  you  up  a  small 
bit  of  beef,  for  you  know  the  Doctor  said  you 
might  eat  a  little  meat  today.' 

'  O  yes,'  replied  Lucy,  cl  am  very  glad,  1  do 
want  to  eat,  [  am  so  hungry,  mother.  1  think 
I  ought  to  put  eating  in  my  list;  how  glad  I  was 
to  get  a  piece  of  dry  toast,  after  1  had  been 
without  several  days.' 

I  trust  you  will  not  complain  again  if  your 
food  is  not  just  to  your  mind;  if  you  cannot 
always  have  chicken  or  turkey  ior  your  dinner, 
or  a  cake  and  sweetmeats  at  supper;  but  be 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  67 

thankful  you  have  a  good  appetite,  and  can  rel- 
ish plain  wholesome  food.' 

The  next  day  Lucy  went  down  to  dinner, 
and  in  two  days  more  as  the  weather  was  fine 
she  walked  in  the  Mall.  The  day  after  her 
walk  her  grandpapa  took  her  and  her  brother 
into  the  country.  This  ride  was  the  pleasant- 
est  to  Lucy  she  had  ever  taken.  To  quit  her 
sick  chamber,  to  feel  well,  to  see  the  flowers 
and  the  grass,  and  all  the  beauty  and  variety  of 
country  scenery,  were  charming  indeed. — Lu- 
cy's eyes  did  not  become  strong  immediately, 
although  she  was  in  all  other  respects  very  well. 
It  was  not  until  after  a  month's  absence  that 
she  returned  to  school.  She  was  welcomed  by 
her  teacher  and  all  her  little  school  fellows,  for 
they  all  loved  her.  She  took  her  place  at  the 
foot  of  every  class  and  was  almost  discouraged 
when  she  found  how  far  they  had  advanced  in 
their  studies.  'How  could  you  get  on  so  far  in 
one  month,'  said  she.  '  A  great  deal  may  be 
done  in  one  month,  my  dear,'  said  her  teacher, 
'this  will  show  you  the  importance  of  time. 
Many  little  girls  waste  more  hours  in  a  year  than 
would  make  up  a  month .     Will  any  of  my  schol  - 


68  DAYS    OF    SICKNESS. 

ars  tell  me  how  many  hours  they  must  waste  a 
day  in  one  year  to  make  up  a  month  ? ' 

Lucy  answered  first,  she  was  very  ready  at 
arithmetic;  and  this  little  instance  of  success  re- 
lieved her  somewhat  frcm  the  despondency 
which  was  coming  over  her  when  she  found  hef 
classmates  so  far  ahead  of  her. 

The  geography  class  had  got  through  their 
geography  and  begun  the  book  again.  This 
was  quite  fortunate  for  Lucy.  She  had  learn- 
ed her  lessons  thoroughly  and  she  could  easily 
keep  along  with  them  now  they  were  going  over 
the  ground  a  second  time,  and  get  a  lesson  in 
the  part  they  had  studied  while  she  was  ab- 
sent; in  order  to  reach  her  class  in  some  other 
studies,  she  omitted  those  which  she  used  to 
learn  alone. 

One  day  on  her  return  from  school  she  said 
to  her  mother;  'it  seems  to  me  that  I  shall  never 
make  up  that  month.' 

'  It  is  hard  to  make  up  lost  time,  Lucy,'  said 
her  mother,  'and  this  is  a  reason  for  employing 
wisely  all  we  have.  But  we  need  not  count 
your  days  of  sickness  lost  time,  for  you  have 
during  them,  learned  some  things  of  the  first 


DAYS    OF    SICKNESS.  69 

importance.  They  were  serious  lessons,  such 
as  sickness  and  suffering  only  can  teach.  You 
are  not  too  young  however  to  appreciate  their 
value.  The  lesson  of  patience,  which  while  it 
alleviates  your  own  sufferings  renders  it  to 
much  easier  for  me  to  attend  on  you;  gratitude 
and  love  to  those  who  do  so  much  for  your 
comfort  and  happiness,  and  thankfulness  and 
devotion  to  your  Heavenly  Father,  all  whose 
dispensations  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow  are  de- 
signed for  your  benefit.  You  understand  bet- 
ter than  you  ever  did  before,  the  value  of  health 
and  time,  and  of  friends;  and  you  will  I  trust 
make  a  more  faithful  use  of  these  than  former- 
ly. Instead  of  losing  a  month,  you  have  prob- 
ably gained  many  by  the  improvement  you  will 
now  be  disposed  to  make  of  your  time  and  ad- 
vantages. Thus  you  perceive  that  our  days 
of  sickness  instead  of  being  lost  time,  are,  or 
ought  to  be,  among  the  most  precious  days 
which    God    in   his   goodness   bestows   upon 


^ 


pi 


~h 


& 


Tttii 


BEATITUDES. 


,  V 


;.;f 


;    v%  ^  ii 


PREFACE. 


The  following  Book,  entitled  '  The  Beatitudes/ 
is  designed  to  convey  religious  instruction  to  chil- 
dren, by  stories,  and  familiar  illustrations  of  some 
of  the  doctrines  and  precepts  of  our  Saviour.  If 
a  single  child  should  acquire  from  its  perusal,  a 
better  knowledge  of  the  principles  of  our  religion, 
or  imbibe  a  purer  affection  and  deeper  reverence 
for  its  Divine  Author,  the  mother,  who  wrote  it, 
will  have  her  reward. 


THE  BEATITUDES. 


One  Sunday  Mary  had  been  reciting  to  her 
mother  a  lesson  which  consisted  of  the  twelve 
first  verses,  of  the  fifth  chapter  of  Matthew — the 
commencement  of  that  best  of  all  sermons  that 
was  ever  preached — c  The  sermon  on  the 
Mount.'  Her  mother  told  her  that  the  bless- 
ings here  pronounced  by  our  Saviour,  were 
called  l  The  Beatitudes' — and  that  it  had  been 
said  of  some  very  good  man,  that  he  was  £  a 
man  of  the  Beatitudes  ;'  because  he  exemplifi- 
ed, to  a  very  rare  degree,  the  spirit  and  the 
virtues  which  our  Saviour  here  commends. 
Now,  Mary  was  a  child  who  seemed  to  love 
goodness  for  its  own  sake,  and  in  all  the  little 
temptations  and  trials  to  which  she  was  subject, 
was  more  than  usually  apt  ;  to  choose  the  good 
and  refuse  the  evil.'  She  looked  very  thought- 
ful for  a  moment,  and  then  asked,  *  Mother,  do 
you  think  it  could  ever  be  said  of  any  little  child, 
that  she  was  a  child  of  the  Beatitudes  ?  do  you 


76  THE    BEATITUDES. 

think  a  little  child  could  be  good  enough  to  hare 
that  said  of  her  ?' 

c  I  think,  my  dear,  that  it  is  the  duty  of  every 
child,  capable  of  understanding  the  instructions 
of  our  Saviour,to  regulate  her  daily  life  by  them, 
and  where  there  is  such  an  effort,  such  an  in- 
tention, it  will  succeed  to  a  greater  or  less  de- 
gree.' 

*  Yes,  mother,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  some 
of  those  things  which  our  Saviour  teaches  here, 
are  such  as  do  not  belong  to  little  children  at 
all.' 

*  On  the  contrary,  my  dear,  I  think  if  I  were 
to  explain  them  to  you,  you  would  find  that 
every  one  of  them  was  appropriate  to  children.' 

4  Well  now  mother,  take  the  first  beatitude, 
if  you  please — '  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit.' 
Perhaps  I  do  not  know  what  that  means,  but  I 
think  I  have  some  idea  of  it,  and  I  do  not  see 
how  a  little  child  is  to  show  that  she  is  '  poor 
in  spirit.' 

1  I  think  I  can  soon  make  you  perceive,  my 
dear;  and  in  order  to  have  my  explanation 
clearer,  I  will  adopc  the  method  of  the  teachers 
of  the  deaf  and  dumb,  who,  when  they  wish  to 


THE    BEATITUDES.  77 

communicate  a  new  idea  lo  the  pupil,  present 
the  opposite,  the  contrast,  and  then  the  idea  it- 
self, made  clearer  by  the  contrast.  So  I  will 
ask  you  if  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  proud  in 
spirit  ?' 

*  O  yes,  mother,  I  am  sure   I   cannot  help 
knowing  that,  when  I   see  so  much  every  day 

of Mary  stopped,  for  she  recollected,  that 

her  mother  never  liked  to  hear  her  talk  of  the 
faults  of  her  companions. 

'  You  may  go  on,  my-dear,'  said  her  mother. 
1  When  we  speak  of  other's  faults  from  a  prop- 
er motive,  that  we  may  learn  a  lesson  from  them 
of  use  to  ourselves,  we  do  no  wrong ;  but  it  is 
both  foolish  and  sinful  to  bring  them  into  no- 
tice, for  the  purpose  of  making  ourselves  appear 
to  greater  advantage  by  the  comparison.  It  is 
much  more  for  our  own  benefit  to  compare  our- 
selves with  those  who  are  better  than  we  are, 
than  with  such  as  have  even  more  faults.  But 
to  return  to  our  subject.  Tell  me  what  you 
think  are  the  marks  of  a  proud  spirit.  How 
does  Helen,  who,  I  suppose  you  were  going  to 
name  just  now,  show  such  a  spirit  P 

*  Why,  if  she  gets  into  any  disputes  or  quar- 


78  THE   BEATITUDES. 

rels  with  the  girls  at  school,  as  often  happens, 
when  it  is  entirely  her  own  fault,  the  idea  never 
seems  to  enter  her  head  that  she  can  be  in  the 
wrong,  and  sometimes  when  I  know,  and  when 
she  tells  me  afterwards,  she  thinks  herself  the 
blame  was  on  her  part,  she    declares  she  will 
not  acknowledge  it  to  them.     She  cannot  bear 
not  to  have  us  agree  with  her  in  all  her  opinions, 
to  think  just  as  she  does,  and  be  willing  to  do 
just  as  she  says,  because,  as  you  would  suppose, 
she  really  believes  that  whatever  she  says  and 
does  must  be  right.     If  she  takes  an  affront  she 
is  very  slow  to  forgive  it.     She  often  complains 
that  her  father  and   mother  wont  let  her  have 
her  own  way   more,  and  is   indignant   at  the 
schoolmaster  for  every  restraint  he  puts  upon 
us,  as  if  her  own  will  was  the  only  law  for  her/ 
■  Well,  my  dear,  a  child  to  be  poor  in  spirit, 
must  be  just  the  reverse  of  all  this.     She  must 
never  have  so  much  confidence  in   herself  as 
not  to  be  always  watchful  lest  she  should  do 
wrong;  ready  to  suspect   herself  rather  than 
others,  and  to  confess  her  errors  when  she  per- 
ceives them;  willing  not  only  to  forgive  injuries, 
but  to  return  good  for  evil;  always  desirous  to 


THE    BEATITUDES.  79 

learn  something  from  the  virtues  of  others,  and 
willing  to  be  guided  by  those  who  are  wiser  and 
better  than  herself.  It  is  only  such  who  can 
with  any  sincerity  offer  the  petition,  'forgive  us 
our  trespasses,'  as  it  is  only  such  who  have  that 
sense  of  sin  which  makes  pardon  seem  necessary.' 

'  Well,  mother,  I  think  I  see  now  that  a  child 
may  be  'poor  in  spirit, '  but  before,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  this  could  be  required  only  of  those 
who  were  grown  up,  and  who  had  great  fame  or 
wealth,  or  some  such  things  to  make  them  very 
proud.' 

'  It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  remark,  after 
what  I  have  already  said,  that  in  such  instan- 
ces, the  duty  is  not  more  necessary,  though 
perhaps,  a  great  deal  more  difficult.' 

'  One  word,  if  you  please,  mother,'  said 
Mary,  'upon  the  last  part  of  the  text  we  have 
been  considering.  Our  Saviour  says,  '  Bless» 
ed  are  the  poor  in  spirit,  for  theirs  is  the  king- 
dom of  Heaven.'  What  does  he  mean  by  say- 
ing that  *  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven?' 

*  His  answer  to  the  Pharisees  on  occasion 
of  their  asking  him  when  the  kingdom  of  God 
would  come,  explains  this,  He  replied  to  them, 


80  THE    BEATITUDES. 

'  the  kingdom  of  God  Is  within  you.'  Blessed 
indeed,  must  those  be,  of  whom  this  can  be  said. 
It  is  always  considered  a  great  happiness,  you 
know,  to  live  under  a  wise  and  merciful  gov- 
ernment. Those  who  have  the  kingdom  of 
God  within  them,  and  obey  his  laws,  enjoy,  in  a 
peculiar  manner,  his  favor  and  protection,  and 
are  especially  entitled  to  the  rewards  that  are 
promised  to  his  faithful  servants.  Such  have, 
even  while  on  eanh,a  taste  of  the  happiness  of 
Heaven. 

1  Thank  you,  my  dear  mother;  and  now 
will  you  talk  with  me  a  little  longer,  and  help 
me  to  understand  better  the  next  verse.' 

*  I  have  only  time,  now,  dear,  to  tell  you  a 
Story  of  two  little  girls,  one  of  whom,  Harriet 
Somers, 'was  a  good  deal  like  your  acquaint- 
ance Helen,  and  the  other,  Sarah  Swift,  of  a 
very  different  character.' 

'  And  what  will  you  call  the  story?  you 
know  I  always  like  to  have  a  name  for  a  story/ 

1  Well,  then,  it  shall  be  called  '  the  story 

OF  THE  PROUD  GIRL  AND  HKR  GENTLE  FRIEND.' 

These  little  girls  were  schoolmates  and  neigh- 
bors, so  that,  of  course,  they  had  a  good  deal 


THE    BEATITUDES.  8\ 

of  intercourse  with  each  other.  Harriet  was 
more  fond  of  Sarah,  than  Sarah  was  of  her;  but 
still,  there  was  a  good  deal  in  Harriet  that  Sa- 
rah could  not  help  liking;  for  though  very  proud 
and  rather  imperious,  she  had  naturally  a  gener- 
ous spirit,  and  a  warm,  affectionate  temper.  She 
was  almost  always  on  bad  terms  with  her  school- 
mates generally,  but  Sarah  was  so  very  sweet 
tempered,  so  '  poor  in  spirit,'  that  she  was  al- 
ways ready  to  forgive  all  her  little  offences,  and 
overlook  her  faults. 

One  Saturday  afternoon,  Harriet,  accord- 
ing to  her  usual  custom,  called  for  Sarah  to 
take  a  walk.  Sarah  declined,  because,  as  she 
said,  she  had  engaged  to  go  with  Mary  Horn; 
*  but  you  will  wait  till  Mary  comes,'  said  Sarah; 
'  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  your  company  too.' 

Harriet  took  offence  at  this.  *  I  thought  it 
was  understood,'  said  she,  c  between  you  and 
me,  that  we  should  have  a  walk  together  every 
Saturday  afternoon,  and  I  wonder  you  should 
engage  to  go  with  some  one  else  and  say  noth- 
ing to  me  about  it.' 

1  Why  Harriet,'  said  Sarah,  *  I  could'nt  im- 
agine that  you  would  not  be   willing  to  have 


82  THE    BEATITUDES. 

Mary  of  the  party;  and  as  she  is  a  stranger, 
removed  from  all  her  friends,  and  seems  to  take 
a  fancy  to  me,  rather  than  to  the  girls  she  boards 
with,  I  thought  I  should  be  unkind  to  refuse 
her.  She  could  not  come  till  five,  and  I  was 
sure  you  would  be  willing,  for  the  sake  of  oblig- 
ing her,  to  wait  till  then.' 

'  I  don't  care,'  said  Harriet,  peevishly,  '  it 
may  have  been  kind  to  her,  but  I  think  it  was 
very  unkind  to  me;  and  1  have  no  fancy  foF 
people  that  are  always  ready  to  forsake  old 
friends  for  new  ones.'  So  saying,  she  abruptly 
left  her. 

1  Now  is  it  not  strange,'  said  Sarah  when 
she  went  upstairs  to  her  mother's  room,  'that 
Harriet  should  take  offence  so  easily?' 

<  She  will  learn  better  by  and  by,  1  trust,' 
said  her  mother,  '  she  will  find  that  such  folly 
costs  her  too  much.' 

*  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  mother  ?' 
1  1  mean  that  by  indulging  her  pride  of  tem- 
per she  loses  a  great  deal  of  love  and  good 
will,  besides  a  great  many  social  pleasures,  as 
for  instance,  this  walk;  and  therefore,  her  pride 
may  be  said  to  cost  her  all  these.' 


THE    BEATITUDES.  83 

*  Now  I  dare  say,'  said  Sarah,  l  that  she 
will  refuse  to  go  with  us  this  afternoon,  and  it 
is  likely  as  not  that  she  wont  speak  to  me  for 
a  week  to  come., 

*  Well,  my  dear,  don't  let  there  be  any  change 
in  your  manners  towards  her;  at  least,  no  dimi* 
nution  of  kindness  and  good  will.' 

When  Mary  Horn  came,  Sarah  condescend- 
ed so  far  as  to  call  for  Harriet,  which  1  suppose 
some  little  girls  would  have  been  quite  too 
proud  to  do.  When  Harriet  heard  the  kind 
tones  of  Sarah's  voice  inquiring  for  her,  she 
had  half  a  mind  to  resume  her  good  humor, 
and  run  down  stairs  to  join  her,  but  her  pride 
prevented,  and  she  sent  word  she  was  engaged. 
She  followed  the  girls,  however,  with  her  eyes, 
as  far  as  she  could  see  them,  wishing,  all  the 
time,  that  she  was  with  them.  Pride  is  a  hard 
master,  a  despot,  that  must  be  obeyed,  wheth- 
er his  service  is  agreeable  or  not. 

The  next  Monday,  when  Harriet  came  to 
school,  clouds  were  still  on  her  brow,  that  not 
even  the  bright  good  humor  in  Sarah's  face  as 
she  bade  her  a  kind  good  morning,  could  dispel. 
She  kept  aloof  from  Sarah  all  day,  and  avoided 


84  THE    BEATITUDES. 

her,  as  much  as  she  could,  even  when  they 
were  going  in  the  same  direction  home. 

The  next  day  they  were  to  carry  in  their 
compositions,  for  the  first  time  since  the  com- 
mencement of  a  new  term.  Their  teacher 
said  he  was  going  to  adopt  a  new  plan;  which 
was,  that  each  girl  should  read  her  own  aloud. 

The  girls  were  not  prepared  for  this,  and  it 
was  a  great  trial  to  them.  When  it  came  to 
Sarah's  turn,  who  never  thought  it  right  or 
proper  to  refuse  anything  that  her  teacher  re- 
quired, she  immediately  read  hers,  though  with 
a  trembling  lip,  and  in  such  agitation  that  she 
almost  cried  before  she  had  finished;  but  when 
Harriet  was  called  upon  she  first  begged  to  be 
excused,  and  when  she  found  that  her  teacher 
positively  insisted  on  her  doing  as  the  rest  had 
done,  she  hastily  threw  the  paper  into  the  fire. 
Sarah,  foreseeing  that  her  disgrace  would  be 
the  consequence,  eagerly  snatched  it  out,  be- 
fore it  had  kindled,  and  wmispering  to  Harriet, 
begged  she  would  read  it,  as,  if  she  persisted 
in  her  refusal,  she  would  certainly  be  turned 
out  of  school.  With  as  much  haste  as  she  had 
used  in  throwing  it  into  the  fire,  she  seized  the 


J 

THE    BEATITUDES.  85 

paper  again,  and  read,  or  rather  muttered  it 
over,  so  rapidly,  that  not  one  half  of  it  could 
be  understood.  The  teacher  said  that  would 
not  do;  it  must  be  read  distinctly.  Sarah,  ea- 
ger to  save  her  friend,  and  sure  that  in  the 
present  state  of  her  mind  she  was  incapable  of 
complying  with  this  requisition,  asked  if  she 
might  be  permitted  to  read  it  for  her.  The 
teacher,  unwilling  to  come  to  extremities  with 
Harriet,  and  hoping  she  would  be  more  rea- 
sonable another  time,  replied  in  the  affirmative. 
Sarah  took  pains  to  read  it  as  slowly,  and  dis- 
tinctly as  possible,  hoping,  by  this  means,  to 
efface  the  unpleasant  impression  of  the  scene 
from  the  teacher's  mind.  It  happened  not  to 
be  a  very  good  composition;  it  had  been 
written  hastily  and  carelessly.  Harriet,  though 
a  girl  of  good  abilities,  was  very  indolent,  and 
supposing  that  no  one  but  her  teacher  would 
see  the  composition,  cared  very  little  about  it. 
It  caused  her,  therefore,  a  good  deal  of  morti- 
fication, and  she  began  to  feel  provoked  with 
herself  for  her  weakness,  as  she  called  it,  in 
yielding  to  what  she  thought  was  such  a  ridic- 
ulous, unreasonable  requisition  on  the  part  of 


86  THE    BEATITUDES. 

her  teacher.  Completely  out  of  humor  with 
herself  and  everybody  else,  when  Sarah,  who 
felt  very  sorry  for  her,  was  going  to  lake  her 
arm  as  they  wrent  home  together,  she  rudely 
repulsed  her,  saying  she  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  a  girl  who,  under  the  pretence  of 
kindness,  only  wished  to  do  her  an  injury. 

'  You  know,  Sarah,'  said  she,  *  that  I  never 
took  any  pains  with  my  compositions;  and  you 
wanted  to  show  how  much  better  yours  was, 
than  mine;  that  was  the  occasion  of  your  great 
eagerness  to  save  it  from  the  flames,  and  then 
to  read  it  yourself,  when  you  knew  I  should 
positively  refuse  again.' 

This  wras  too  much,  too  hard,  for  poor  Sa- 
rah to  bear  without  having  her  feelings  very 
much  hurt.  To  receive  reproaches  instead  of 
thanks,  where  thanks  are  due,  is  a  severe  trial 
both  of  temper  and  principle.  Sarah  made  no 
reply,  but  walked  on  in  silence,  till  she  reached 
her  father's  door.  The  moment  she  entered, 
her  mother  perceived  that  something  troubled 
her,  and  asked  an  explanation.  Sarah  told 
the  story  of  her  wrongs  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
14  Now  mother,'  said  she,  *  was  it  not  too  bad — ■ 


THE    BEATITUDES.  87 

how  can  I  ever  have  anything  more  to  do  with 
her?' 

'  I  hope  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you 
can  never  forgive  her,'  said  her  mother. 

'  Why,  no,  mother,  I  will  try  to  forgive  her; 
but  it  appears  to  me  I  can  never  endure  to  have 
her  for  a  companion  again.' 

y  If  you  really  forgive  her,  my  dear,  you  will 
be  willing  to  associate  with  her;  and  if  you  are 
actuated  by  a  proper  feeling,  you  will  be  wil- 
ling, patiently  to  bear  with  all  her  foibles,  in 
the  hope  of  curing  or  softening  them  by  your 
own  forbearance  and  mildness.' 

1  Ah!  there  is  the  very  thing,  mother.  If  I 
continue,  after  what  has  passed,  to  treat  her 
just  as  I  did  before,  I  do  not  believe  she  will 
ever  be  conscious  how  shamefully  she  has  be- 
haved.' 

'  Do  you  recollect,  my  dear,  the  fable  of 
the  sun  and  wind.  The  wind,  with  all  its  vi- 
olence could  not  compel  the  traveller  to  part 
with  his  cloak;  he  only  wrapped  it  more 
closely  about  him — but  when  the  sun  darted 
upon  him  his  hot  rays  in  noonday  stillness,  he 
was  glad  to  throw  it  off.     The  ancients  were 


88  THE    BEATITUDES. 

by  natural  principles,  enlightened  and  confirm- 
ed by  experience  only;  but  we,  who  have  the 
aid  of  revelation.,  ought  to  be  much  wiser  and 
better  than  they.  This  fable  was  undoubtedly 
intended  to  illustrate  the  principle  which  I  now 
wish  to  impress  upon  you — that  mild  and  gen- 
tle means  will  often  prove  more  effectual,  than 
violent  measures.  To  drop  Harriet's  acquaint- 
ance would  be  a  violent  measure  for  you  to 
adopt,  and  would  probably  confirm  all  the  dis- 
agreeable traits  in  her  character;  but,  continue 
your  usual,  mild,  and  kind  treatment  of  her, 
and  depend  upon  it,  she  will,  in  time,  lay  aside 
the  mantle  of  pride  in  which  she  wraps  herself, 
as  the  traveller  did  his  cloak.' 

'  If  1  could  feel  as  sure  of  that  as  you  do, 
mother,  I  think,  at  least,  I  hope,  I  should  not 
hesitate  what  course  to  pursue — but  Harriet's 
seems  to  me  a  hopeless  case.' 

'  Well,  my  dear,  granting  that  it  is  hopeless, 
which  I  do  not  at  all  believe  ;  shall  you  do 
wrong,  because  you  consider  her  irreclaimable  ? 
Can  you  recollect  none  of  the  beautiful  precepts 
of  our  Saviour  that  apply  to  such  a  case  as  this  ? 
Can  I  not  derive  an  argument  from  his  own  ex- 


THE    BEATITUDES.  89 

ample,  the  influence  of  which  1  know  you  some* 
times  feel,  to  prove  to  you  what  is  your  duty 
in  the  present  instance?  ' 

At  this  suggestion  of  her  mother,  several 
such  precepts  as  these,  '  resist  not  evil,'  '  love 
your  enemies,'  &tc.  he.  immediately  occurred 
to  Sarah;  and  she  thought  of  our  Saviour's  pa- 
tience, and  gentleness,  with  those  from  whom 
he  received  the  worst,  the  most  ungrateful 
treatment.  Her  own  naturally  kind  disposi- 
tion inclined  her  to  the  side  of  clemency;  and 
now,  that  she  felt  a  conviction  of  duty,  she  no 
longer   hesitated. 

'  I  will  follow  your  advice,  my  dear  mother, 
or  rather,  perhaps,  I  should  say,  1  will  follow 
the  dictates  of  revelaiion,  '  the  Bible  rule,'  as 
little  Jemmy  would  call  it.' 

The  next  day,  Harriet  did  not  look  well  — 
Sarah  went  to  her,  and  kindly  inquired  what 
ailed  her. 

'  Nothing,  nothing  at  all,'  said  she,  abruptly; 
and  immediately  took  her  seat;  pretending  to 
be  very  busy.  Sarah  took  her  seat  also,  which 
was  near  Harriet's,  and  presently  looking  up, 
perceived  that  she   had   become   excessively 


90  THE    BEATITUDES. 

pale.  She  hastily  took  a  little  bottle  of  cologne 
water  from  her  bag,  and  handed  it  to  her. 
Harriet  shook  her  head,  but  in  doing  so,  be- 
came still  more  pale,  and  seemed  on  the  point 
of  fainting  away.  Sarah  supported  her  in  her 
arms;  called  for  a  tumbler  of  water — and  then 
begged  there  might  be  a  carriage  sent  for,  to 
take  her  home.  Meanwhile,  she  nursed  her 
with  all  tenderness;  and  when  the  carriage 
came,  accompanied  her  home. 

In  the  evening,  she  went  over  to  inquire  how 
she  was,  and  found  her  very  ill — a  long  fit  of 
sickness  ensued.  All  this  time,  Sarah  was  un- 
remitting in  her  attentions.  At  first,  Harriet 
was  rather  shy;  but  soon  became  so  fond  of 
her  that  she  could  hardly  bear  to  have  her  out 
of  her  sight.  Sickness  gives  us  a  sense  of  our 
dependance  upon  the  love  and  kindness  of  our 
friends  which  hardly  anything  else  can.  Har- 
riet's father  being  absent,  she  had  no  one  to 
attend  upon  her  but  his  housekeeper ;  who, 
though  a  faithful  nurse,  was  neither  interesting 
or  agreeable. 

Sarah  was  telling  her  mother,  one  day,  how 
necessary  she  had  become  to  Harriet.  '  I  really 


THE    BEATITUDES.  91 

do  not  know  what  she  would  do  without  me,' 
said  she,  '  for  Miss  Rachel  says  that  (he  mo- 
ment she  is  awake  in  the  morning,  she  calls  for 
the  watch  to  see  whether  it  is  near  the  time  that 
1  usually  go  in,  before  school,  and  then  keeps  it 
by  her  all  day,  and  watches  it  constantly,  for 
the  return  of  the  accustomed  hours  of  my  vis- 
its ;  and  that  so  sure  as  I  miss  a  visit,  she  loses 
a  meal ;  which,  now  that  she  is  able  to  bear  a 
little  food,  is  quite  a  disadvantage  to  her.  1  on- 
ly wish  it  was  vacation,  and  then  I  could  be  with 
her  all  the  time.  She  can  bear  some  reading 
now,  and  to  be  amused  with  my  chat ;  and  she 
loves  dearly  to  have  me  bathe  her  head,  and  fix 
her  pillow,  and  do  ten  thousand  little  things  for 
her.  She  says  Miss  Rachel's  hand  is  very- 
rough,  and  mine  smooth  ;  that  Miss  Rachel  is 
too  loud,  and  too  quick  in  all  her  motions  ; 
while  I  am  sofily,  and  gentle.  All  that  is  ima- 
ginaiion,  I  suppose,  but  the  poor  girl  suffers  so 
much,  that  I  am  sure  I  ought  to  gratify  her,  in 
every  way  I  can.' 

Sarah's  mother  thought  this  an  opportunity 
not  to  be  lost,  of  inculcating  a  moral  lesson,  that 
would  make  a  lasting  impression  upon  the  mind 


92  THE    BEATITUDES. 

of  her  child,  and  help  to  confirm  all  the  best 
tenderness  of  her  nature.  '  If  you  think  so,  my 
dear,'  said  she,  ■  had  not  you  belter  give  up  your 
school,  for  the  present?  I  have  no  objection  to 
that  myself ;  and  I  am  sure  your  father  will  be 
perfectly  willing.' 

*  O  I  did  not  mean  to  suggest  anything  of 
that  kind  mother;  it  is  quite  out  of  the  question, 
you  know,  because  F  am  striving  for  the  beau- 
tiful prize  that  has  been  shown  us  for  a  bait;  and 
besides,  my  uncle  William  said  if  I  obtained  it, 
as  I  think  I  certainly  shall,  he  would  give  me  a 
new  box  of  paints;  of  which  I  am  really  in  great 
need.  Harriet  would  not  wish  me  to  give  up 
these,  on  her  account,  I  am  sure.' 

'I  dare  say  not,  my  dear;  but  so  much  the 
greater  would  be  the  merit  of  the  sacrifice.' 

1  Why,  1  think,  mother,  if  I  rise  very  early, 
and  study  very  hardLI  can  be  with  her  nearly 
all  the  time  out  of  school,  after  she  wakes  in 
the  morning,  which  is  not,  usually,  till  very  late. 
She  seems  entirely  satisfied  with  that  arrange- 
ment; and,  perhaps,  really  enjoys  seeing  me  in 
that  way,   more  than  if  I  were  with  her  all  the 


THE   BEATITUDES.  93 

1  That  might  be  the  case  if  she  were  in  full 
health,  and  could  contrive  her  own  amusements, 
and  procure  her  own  pleasures;  but  now,  your 
society  being  the  only  solace  and  comfort  that 
she  has,  the  more  she  sees  you,  the  better,  of 
course.  I  was  not  thinking,  however,  so  much 
of  the  present  happiness  you  might  confer  upon 
her,  as  of  the  benefit  to  her  character,  which 
could  hardly  fail  to  be  the  consequence  of  such 
a  magnanimous  return,  on  your  part,  of  good  for 
evil.' 

'  O,  as  to  that,  mother,  I  know  that  she  feels 
very  grateful  for  what  I  have  done  already ;  and 
I  don't  doubt  she  is  very  sorry  for  her  foolish 
conduct.' 

'1  dare  say,  my  dear,  that  she  feels  all  this 
now,  very  deeply;  but  still,  all  you  have  done 
has  been  without  any  sacrifice;  and  is  certainly, 
no  more  than  common  kindness  required. — The 
impression  of  it,  therefore,  will  not  probably  be 
lasting — it  will  wear  away  as  other  impressions 
of  the  sick  room  are  apt  to  do;  when  the  pa- 
tient, restored  to  health,  comes  forth  into  the 
world  again,  and  amid  the  freshness  and  fulness 
of  his  returning  pleasures,  forgets  the  past  entire- 


94  THE    BEATITUDES. 

ly;  the  scene  ofloneliness  and  privation  which 
so  lately  surrounded  him,  fades  from  his  mem- 
ory, as  spectres  that  haunt  the  imagination  by 
night,  disappear  with  the  light  of  the  morning.' 

1  That  being  the  case,  mother,  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  had  better  take  some  other  opportunity, 
when  she  is  in  health,  to  make  some  great  im- 
pression upon  her  mind.' 

<  It  is  never  best,  my  dear  Sarah,  to  defer  a 
present  opportunity  of  doing  good.  Life  is  too 
short,  too  uncertain.  I  fear  you  set  more  value 
on  this  prize,  than  on  the  chance  of  your  friend's 
reformation.  But  what  will  the  temporary  pleas- 
ure it  will  afford  you  be  worth,  in  the  compar- 
ison, with  the  lasting  satisfaction  of  having  dis- 
charged your  duty  towards  her,  even  if  you 
should  not  succeed,  in  producing  the  desired  ef- 
fect upon  her  character  ?  Were  you  to  look  to 
the  example  of  our  Saviour,  for  guidance  on 
this  occasion,  what  would  you  learn  from  it? 
Was  not  his,  a  life  of  continual  self-sacrifice,  in 
the  service,  and  for  the  good  of  others  ?' 

This  was  an  appeal  which  Sarah  could  not 
find  it  in  her  heart  to  resist.  It  is  no  disparage- 
ment to  her  virtue  to  say,  that  it  cost  her  a  hard 


THE   BEATITUDES.  95 

Struggle  to  renounce  the  attractive  prize,  togeth- 
er with  all  the  honors  that  would  accompany  it; 
without  temptations,  and  infirmities,  there  would 
be  no  positive  virtue;  but  after  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  what  was  her  duty,  she  discharged  it 
cheerfully. 

The  day  after  this  conversation,  she  repair- 
ed, as  usual,  early  in  the  morning,  to  the  sick 
room.  After  she  had  remained  some  time, 
Harriet  reminded  her  that  it  was  past  the  hour 
for  school. 

'  I  know  it,'  replied  Sarah,  c  but  my  mother 
has  given  me  leave  to  stay  with  you  today.' 

'  But  you  ought  not  to  lose  a  single  day,'  said 
Harriet,  '  if  you  mean  to  gain  the  prize.' 

4  O,'  said  Sarah,  '  1  think  I  can  afford  to  lose 
one  day,  at  least,'  without  letting  her  know  her 
plan  of  giving  up  the  school  entirely. 

The  next  day  when  Harriet  again  perceived 
that  Sarah  had  no  intention  of  going  to  school, 
she  said  to  her,  '  You  ought  to  go,  Sarah;  you 
will  certainly  lose  the  prize.' 

'  But  what  if  I  had  rather  stay  with  you  than 
have  the   prize?' 

Tears  started  from  Harriet's  eyes*    She  threw 
8 


10  THE  BEATITUDES. 

her  arms  around  Sarah's  neck;  '  O,'  said  she, 
'  forgive  me,  forgive  me,  for  all  my  injustice  to 
you;'  and  sobbed   aloud. 

'  Forgive  that  ye  may  be  forgiven,  the  Bible 
says,'  replied  Sarah;  'we  all  have  our  faults,  and 
must  mutually  forgive  each  other.' 

4  You  hav'nt  a  fault  in  the  world,  Sarah.  O! 
if  I  only  could  be  like  you;  but  1  cannot  bear  to 
have  you  lose  the  prize  on  my  account;  I  can 
never  consent  to  your  making  such  a  sacrifice; 
so,  my  dear  Sarah,  get  your  bonnet  this  mo- 
ment, and  hasten  to  school  as  fast  as  you  can; 
but  come  back  to  me  the  moment  it  is  out.' 

'1  have  no  wish  to  go,'  said  Sarah;  'ifyou  de- 
sire my  hapiness  and  allow  me  to  be  the  judge  of 
what  will  contribute  most  to  it,  you  will  not  op- 
pose my  staying  here  with  you  until  you  are 
well  enough  to  go  out  again.' 

1  You  are  too  good  Sarah;'  was  all  the  reply. 
Sarah  then  took  a  book  to  read  aloud;  and, 
Harriet  who  had  been  a  good  deal  exhausted 
"by  the  excitement  of  this  conversation,  soon 
fell  asleep.  Directly  she  began  to  talk  in  her 
sleep;  'Father,  forgive,  forgive;' she  uttered  in  a 
low  beseeching  tone;  then  in  an  animated  voice 


THE    BEATITUDES.  97 

exclaimed  l  Sarah ;  angel ;  hallelujah  ;  hal- 
lelujah.' Sarah  moved  to  the  bedside  and  took 
her  hand.  When  she  awoke,  and  her  eyes 
met  Sarah's;  'O  Sarah,'  said  she,  '1  saw  you  in 
my  dream, looking  as  happy  and  beautiful  as  a 
celestial  spirit.  I  was  kneeling,  trembling,  and 
in  tears,  at  the  foot  of  the  Bright  One  who  seem- 
ed to  hold  a  crown  over  your  head;  and  when 
I  saw  him  place  it  there,  my  prayer  for  forgive- 
ness was  instantly  changed  into  a  loud  shout 
of  praise.' 

'We  are  not  quite  in  heaven  yet,'  said  Sarah, 
smiling;  'but  I  hopew7e  shall  enjoy  something  a 
good  deal  like  it  here  on  earth.' 

Sarah's  hope  was  fulfilled;  she  continued  to 
be,  as  Harriet  called  her,  a  ministering  angel, 
during  the  remainder  of  her  sickness,  and  when 
Harriet  appeared  again  among  her  companions, 
thekindom  of  God  seemed  indeed  to  have  come 
in  her  heart.  Sarah  never  had  occasion,  and 
her  other  companions,  hardly  ever,  to  complain 
of  her  proud  spirit  again.' 

'O,'  said  Mary;  'Blessed  are  the  poor  in 
spirit,'  indeed,  if  they  are  like   Sarah,   and  do 


98  THE    BEATITUDES. 

as  much  good.     I  will  try  myself  to  be  like  Sa- 
rah, motiier.' 


The  first  time,  after  their  last  conversation, 
that  Mary  perceived  her  mother  sitting  alone  at 
her  sewing,  she  claimed  the  promise  she  had 
made  of  taking  the  first  opportunity  she  had,  to 
explain  to  her  the  next  beatitude.  '  This  is  it, 
mother,'  said  she,  reading  from  her  little  Tes- 
tament— 'Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for 
they  shall  be  comforted, ' — this  seems  very 
strange  to  me,'  she  added,  'for  I  should  think 
that  mqurners  were  the  last  persons  that  could 
be  called  blessed.' 

'Perhaps,'  said  her  mother,  'this  is  intended 
to  apply  chiefly  to  those  who  mourn  for  sin.  No 
one  can  ever  do  this,  without,  at  the  same 
time,  resolving  to  sin  no  more;  and  the  resolu- 
tion itself  gives  comfort,  as  I  dare  say  you 
have  often  felt,  when  you  have  done  wronjc.' 

'O  yes,  lmther,  when  T  got  angry  with  little 
Grace,  the  other  day, — for  th?  first  time,  f  be- 
lieve, and  I  hops  the  last, — and  teased  and  vex- 


THE    BEATITUDES.  99 

ed  her  and  was  very  impatient  with  her,  and  you 
an  d  father  were  displeased  with  me,  it  seemed 
to  me  I  should  die,  but  for  the  comfort  of  re- 
solving that  I  would  never  do  so  again.' 

'We  may  suppose,  too,  from  the  promises 
God  makes  to  the  penitent,  that  He  gives 
comfort  to  their  minds.  But  even  those  who 
mourn  for  friends  or  for  any  earthly  good  which 
they  have  lost,often  find  comfort,  in  the  deepest 
affliction,  if  they  seek  it  in  God — in  their  firm 
belief  that  whatever  he  does  is  right,  and  that 
though  he  bitterly  afflicts  them,  it  is  for  their 
good.  In  such  the  blessed  effects  of  affliction 
are  seen  in  some  improvement  of  their  character. 
With  them,  its  'uses  are  sweet,'  it  makes  them 
think  more  of  heaven  and  try  to  be  better  pre- 
pared for  It — It  '  weans'  them,  as  the  scripture 
expresses  it,  from  this  world;  which,  when  they 
are  in  grief,  they  see  to  be  an  unsatisfying 
world.' 

'Well,  mother,  there  is  another  thing;  that  I 
can't  understand — why  this  world,  which  seems 
to  me  a  very  happy  world,  should  be  called  a 
vain  world,  a  sorrowful  world,  and  all  such  sor- 
rowful expressions.     Almost  everybody  I  see, 

\ 


100  THE    BEATITUDES. 

looks  happy— and  1  am  sure,  I  am  always  very 
happy,  that  is,  when  I  am  good.  Then  we 
have  so  many  things  to  make  lis  happy — our 
pleasant  homes— our  kind  friends — our  entertain- 
ing books;  our  beautiful  gardens  of  flowers,  and 
orchards  of  fruit;  our  pleasant  walks  and  rides; 
the  green  fields;  the  lofty  trees  and  the  glorious 
sun,  moon,  and  stars.  I  am  sure  it  is  a  beau- 
tiful world  and  a  happy  world.' 

'It  certainly  is,  my  love,  and  we  ought  to  re- 
ceive and  enjoy  its  good  things,  with  a  thank- 
ful heart,  and  with  not  only  a  contented,  but  a 
joyous  spirit.  Still,  there  are  a  great  many 
forbidden  trees  in  this  paradise  world,  that  are 
nevertheless,  very  fair  and  attractive  to 
look  upon — and  there  are  a  great  many  evil 
influences,  which,  though  not  embodied  in  the 
form  of  a  serpent,  are  as  subtle  and  dangerous 
as  he  was.5 

'Now  mother,  I  do  not  think  I  perfectly  un- 
derstand you.' 

'Well,  deir,  I  will  explain  myself.  You 
know,  I  suppose,  what  I  refer  to,  in  speaking 
of  the  forbidden  fruit  and  of  the  serpent.' 

1  O  yes,  to  the  story  of  Eve,  in  the  garden  of 


THE    BEATITUDES.  101 

Eden — but  1  do  not  think  now  of  anything 
in  this  world  that  you  can  compare  to  them.' 
'  Anything,  that  you  are  ever  tempted  to  do, 
or  to  indulge  in,  because  you  think  it  would  be 
very  pleasant,  which,  nevertheless,  you  know  to 
be  wrong,  is  i  forbidden.'  And  even  though  it 
may  be  something  not  positively  wrong  in  itself, 
still,  if  there  is  any  reason  which  would  make  it 
the  occasion  of  sin  to  you,  it  is  just  as  much 
forbidden  fruit.  It  is  not  necessary  to  tell 
you  that  what  are  termed  in  scripture,  *  the 
pleasures  of  sin/  nothing  can  ever  excuse: — 
but  there  are  many  other  pleasures,  of  a  per- 
fectly innocent  nature,  which,  notwithstanding, 
are  forbidden  in  some  circumstances.  Gay 
clothes  and  fine  ornaments  are  forbidden  to 
all  but  those  who  have  a  great  deal  more 
money  than  is  sufficient  for  their  necessary 
wants,  and  for  their  charitable  duties.  Even 
the  reading  of  agreeable  and  useful  books  is  a 
forbidden  indulgence  to  those  who  need  every 
moment  of  their  time  for  the  performance  of 
positive  duties.  To  ramble  about  in  the  woods 
or  fields,  the  live-long  day,  as  you  would  iike 
to  do,  would  be  wrong,  because  you  know  that 


102  THE    BEATITUDES. 

some  good  portion  of  your  time  should  be  set 
apart  for  regular  and  useful  occupation.  The 
strawberries  that  the  poor  little  girl,  Julia 
Forbes,  toils  the  long  hot  clay  to  gather,  are  liter- 
ally forbidden  fruit  to  her,  because  the  money- 
she  can  sell  them  for  is  necessary  to  procure 
comforts  for  her  sick  mother;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  it  is  right  in  you  to  purchase  and  eat 
them.  All  pleasures,  of  whatever  kind,  are  for- 
bidden, when  our  indulgence  in  them  would 
interfere  with  any  single  duty. 

'  O,  now,  mother,  I  see  that  the  world  is  full 
of  forbidden  fruit,  and  I  know  there  is  hardly 
a  day  that  1  do  not  want  to  do  something  which 
either  I  cannot,  or  ought  not  to  do — but  when 
you  use  such  big  words,  it  always  seems 
to  me  that  you  must  mean  something  great 
and    important.' 

1  No,  my  dear,  you  will  find,  upon  reflec- 
tion, that  our  sins,  as  well  as  our  pleasures,  are 
often  in  little  things.  This  world  is  one  con- 
tinued scene  of  temptation;  full,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, of  evil  influences;  by  which  1  mean  all 
the  motives,  so  numerous  and  so  varied,  which 
ever  lead   us  to  do  that  which  is  wrong;  and 


THE    BEATITUDES.  103 

those  who  wish  to  be  good  can  never  be  per- 
fectly happy,  so  long  as  they  are  at  all  under 
the  dominion  of  sin.  Then,  too,  we  are  sub- 
ject here  to  many  calamities,  such  as  the  loss 
of  friends,  of  health,  of  limbs,  of  reason,  or  of 
fortune,  and  finally,  to  death  itself;  all  which 
are  reasons  why,  as  the  scriptures  express  it,, 
we  should  seek  to  '  lay  up  our  treasure  in  heav- 
en.' Young  folks  are  not  apt  to  think  much, 
except  on  pleasant  subjects;  but  if  you  will 
reflect  one  single  moment,  you  cannot  help 
remembering  some  scenes  of  misery,  that  you 
have  yourself  witnessed.' 

c  O !  true,  the  poor  family  under  the  hill, 
who  have  suffered  so  much  from  sickness  and 
poverty,  that  I  cannot  bear  to  see  them.  I 
once  heard  the  poor  child,  who  has  had  the 
consumption  so  long,  say,  she  wished  she  was 
in  heaven;  and  I  am  sure  I  wished  so  too. 
Then  there  is  little  Willy  Freeman,  who  lost 
his  mother  the  other  day;  very  often  when  I 
go  by  now,  I  see  him  sitting  in  his  grand- 
mother's door,  and  his  meek,  placid  look,  al- 
ways reminds  me  of  what  my  dear  little  cousin 
Isabel  said,  once,  when  she  was  reading  an  ac- 


104  THE    BEATITUDES. 

count  of  some  little  orphan,  and  of  his  having 
been  left  alone  in  the  world,  when  his  father 
and  mother  died.  When  she  came  to  this,  she 
broke  out,  and  exclaimed  with  great  impetuosi- 
ty, '  He  was  not  alone,  he  was  not  alone,  God 
was  with  him.'  I  thought  God  was  with  poor 
Willy.' 

1  And  so  I  am  told  he  thinks,  because  his 
mother  had  taught  him  to  believe  that  God 
would  take  care  of  him,  and  by  and  by,  if  he 
were  good,  would  take  him  to  heaven,  where 
he  would  join  her,  and  they  would  both  dwell 
with  God  for  ever;  and  he  says,  that  while  he 
can  remember  all  his  mother's  love,  and  can 
have  his  Bible  to  read,  which  she  had  told  him 
was  God's  message  to  him  and  to  everybody, 
he  would  not  be  gloomy.  Thus  you  see  Willy 
is  one  of  those  of  whom  it  may  be  said;  '  Bles- 
sed are  they  that  mourn;  for  they  shall  be 
comforted.'  He  tries  very  hard  to  be  good, 
and  is  laying  up  his  treasure  in  heaven.' 

Mary  wiped  away  the  tears  which  the  con- 
versation about  Willy  had  brought  into  his  eyesj 
and  thought  within  her  own  litttle  breast — 
1  heaven  is  a  better  place  than  this  worlds  and 


THE    BEATITUDES.  105 

I  will  try  to  lay  up  my  treasure  there  too.' 
Her  mother  said  she  could  not  stay  to  talk 
with  her  any  longer  then;  but  would  resume 
these  explanations   some  other  time. 


A  few  evenings  after  their  last  conversation, 
Mary  and  her  mother  were  sitting  alone  togeth- 
er. 'Now,  mother,'  said  Maty,  'will  you 
explain  to  me  another  of  those  texts  ?  To  be 
sure,  I  am  very  busy  reading  my  new  book; 
but  then,  I  can  have  that  at  any  time  to  amuse 
me;  and  it  is  only  now  and  then,  that  I  can 
get  a  chance  to  have  a  good  long  talk  with 
you.' 

1  Well,  dear,  since  you  prefer  my  conversa- 
tion to  your  interesting  book,  I  am  sure  I  can- 
not refuse  it  to  you;  though  I  had  just  fixed  my 
paper  to  write  a  letter.  Get  your  Testament, 
and  let  us  see  what  is  the  next  verse.' 

Mary  did  as  her  mother  bade  her,  and  read 
'  blessed  are  the  meek,  for  they  shall  inherit  the 
earih.' 

*  Now,  mother,  what  is  meekness?' 


106  THE   BEATITUDES. 

{ It  is  something)  my  dear,  like  poverty  of 
spirit;  at  least,  one  cannot  exist  without  the 
other.  Though  the  exercise  of  this  virtue  may 
be  required  in  all  situations  and  circumstances, 
I  should  rather  think  it  would  be  particularly  at- 
tributed to  those,  who,  though  eminent  for 
goodness,  or  power,  or  some  of  those  gifts,  either 
of  mind  or  of  worldly  circumstances,  which  are 
apt  to  excite,  vanity  and  pride  are,  nevertheless,, 
humble,  and,  in  their  intercourse  with  those 
who  are  inferior  to  them,  show  no  conscious- 
ness of  superiority.  Our  blessed  Saviour  ex- 
emplified in  bis  life,  every  virtue  that  he  enjoin- 
ed in  his  preaching:  and  perhaps  none  more  re- 
markably than  meekness.  Though  pronoun- 
ced by  a  voice  from  heaven  to  be  the  beloved 
son  of  God,  and  though  invested  with  such  as- 
tonishing power,  he  was  always,  to  use  the  Bi- 
ble language,  "  meek  and  lowly."  You  have 
yourself  remarked  what  great  simplicity  there 
was  in  his  manner  of  performing  the  most  won- 
derful miracles,  never  doing  anything  with  pa- 
rade or  ostentation.  When  he  rebuked  the 
raging  of  the  sea,  he  said  only,  "  Peace,  be 
still."     When  the  leper  tells  him  "  Lord  if  thou 


THE  BEATITUDES.  107 


wilt,  thou  canst  make  me  clean,"  he  simply  re- 
plies, "  I  will,  be  thou  clean."  ' 

*  But  mother,  how  can  a  little  child,  a 
poor,  feeble,  helpless  little  child,  imitate  Jesus 
an  this  virtue?' 

'  ]  will  tell  you,  my  dear;  some  children  you 
know,  are  superior  to  others,  they  are  the  fa- 
vorites, perhaps,  of  their  friends  or  teachers; 
they  are  smarter  at  their  lessons,  more  attract- 
ive in  their  looks;  born  of  wealthier  parents  who 
can  dress  them  belter,  and  furnish  them  with 
many  more  advantages,  and  bestow  upon  them 
greater  indulgences:— but  a  child  who  wishes 
to  be  like  the  blessed  Saviour  must  never  suf- 
fer herself  to  be  elated  Dy  any  of  these  things. 
You  know  what  elated  means,  for  you  told  me 
the  other  day,  that  you  thought  you  should  be 
very  much  elated,  when  you  got  anew  hat.  You 
meant  only,  perhaps,  that  you  should  be  very 
joyful;  but  when  children  are  so  far  elated,  as  to 
have  their  vanity  excited,  the  temper  of  mind 
that  is  produced  in  them  is  sinful.  If  you  happen 
to  be  superior  in  any  one  particular,to  those  with 
whom  you  associate,  you  must  only  be  the  more 
careful  never  to  show  any  consciousness  of  your 


108  THE    BEATITUDES. 

superiority.  This  will  only  produce  bad  feel- 
ing in  others,  at  the  same  time  that  it  may  cause 
mortification  to  them;  whereas,  if  you  have  any 
superiority,  you  should  value  it,  not  for  the  sake 
of  making  a  display;  but  only  in  proportion  as 
you  can  turn  it  to  the  advantage  of  others;  as 
it  increases  your  usefulness,  your  means  of  do- 
ing good.  Besides,  the  most  favored  child  must 
not  suppose  that  she  may  not  learn  something 
valuable,  or  have  occasion  to  be  thankful  for 
some  benefit,  to  the  most  lowly;  God  seems  to 
have  intended,  that  all  classes  should  be  mutu- 
ally dependant  upon  each  other. 

'  To  show  that  there  may  be  occasion  for 
meekness  in  our  intercourse  with  all  sorts  of 
people,  and  how  beautiful  a  virtue  it  is,  I  will  tell 
you  an  anecdote  of  a  lady  I  knew,  who  had  a 
woman  in  her  kitchen,  for  whose  religious  char- 
acter she  felt  a  great  respect.  Now  you  know 
there  is  always  an  acknowledged  superiority, 
of  a  certain  kind,  on  the  part  of  the  master  and 
mistress  over  the  servant.  This  woman  was 
feeble,  and  worked  hard.  At  the  close  of 
a  day  in  which  she  had  done  a  great  deal, 
and  got   very    much  fatigued,    the   lady  went 


THE    BEATITUDES.  109 

into  her  kitchen,  and  spoke  sharply,  with  a 
good  deal  of  impatience,  when  she  found  that 
some  little  thing,  which  she  had  '  requested 
might  be  done,  had  been  omitted.  I  don't 
know  what  the  woman  replied,  but  as  she 
did  not  think  herself  to  have  been  in  fault,  she 
made  no  apology.  The  next  morning,  how- 
ever, the  lady  who  reproached  herself  very 
much,  went  into  her  kitchen  and  humbly  beg- 
ged the  woman's  pardon.  Tears  came  into  the 
good  creature's  eyes.  "  Now,"  said  she,  "  this 
makes  me  think  of  what  our  minister  says:  that 
in  the  kingdom  of  Christ  there  are  no  masters 
or  servants,  but  all  are  brethren."' 

Little  Mary's  face  glowed  with  interest  and 
pleasure  during  her  mother's  recital.  '  O,'  said 
she,  '  that  is  indeed  better  than  to  behave  to- 
wards servants  as  if  they  did  not  deserve  the 
same  kind  and  just  treatment  which  our  friends 
and  equals  receive  from  us.  I  will  certainly 
try  to  be  a  meek  little  girl,  and  to  remember  al- 
ways that  "  all  men  are  brethren."  ' 

4  Yes,  my  daughter,  keep  that  in  mind,  and 
you  can  never  be  arrogant  in  your  intercourse 
with  your  inferiors.     The   proudest  mortal  is> 


110  THE    BEATITUDES. 

after  all,  but  a  worm  of  the  dust,  doomed  to 
death  and  the  grave;  and  we  cannot  suppose 
that  the  distinctions  which  separate  the  differ- 
ent classes  of  society  here,  will  ever  be  recog- 
nised in  another  world.  The  poorest  saint  in  a 
worldly  sense,  may  have  the  highest  place  at 
God's  right  hand.  ■  How  foolish  it  is,  then,  to 
value  ourselves  for  the  things  that  perish;  our 
strife  should  be  to  excel  in  virtue  and  wisdom 
and  usefulness,  as,  in  that  way,  we  'lay  up  our 
treasure  in  heaven.'  The  advantages  of  wealth, 
of  beauty,  of  grace,  of  personal  accomplish- 
ments, are  confined  to  the  body  only;  the  mind, 
the  immortal  mind  is  not  necessarily  benefited 
by  them,  and  though  there  must  always  be  a 
separation  between  the  different  classes  of  so- 
ciety, yet  it  need  never  prevent  us  from  treat- 
ing all  men  as  brethren,  from  living  in  the  uni- 
form exercise  of  good  will,  and  kindness,  and 
affability  towards  all.' 

s  I  am  not  sure  that  I  know  exactly  what  you 
mean  by  affability,  mother.' 

'  He  may  be  said  to  be  affable  who  treats  all 
persons  as  if  he  was  conscious  of  no  superiority 
that  made  it  proper  for  him  ever  to  dispense 


THE    BEATITUDES.  Ill 

with  that  politeness  and  delicacy  of  manners, 
which  he  would  use  towards  his  equals.  It  is 
related  of  a  governor  of  Virginia,  (which,  you 
know  is  a  slave-holding  state)  that  while  he 
was  talking  one  day  with  a  merchant,  a  negro 
passed  by  and  bowed  to  him.  The  governor 
returned  the  bow.  The  merchant  expressed 
great  surprise  that  '  his  Excellency'  should  con- 
descend so  much  as  to  bow  to  a  negro.  (I 
should  be  very  sorry,'  he  replied,  '  to  be  out- 
done in  civility  by  a  negro.' 

Mary's  mother  was  just  then  putting  up  her 
work.  '  O,  do  tell  me,  mother,  what,  is  meant 
by  saying  that '  the  meek  shall  inherit  the  earth.' 

I  cannot  tell,  my  dear,  unless  it  is  this — The 
meek  claim  so  little,  that  they  are  apt  to  receive 
more  than  they  claim,  and  are  as  well  satisfied 
as  if  they  had  the  homage  of  the  world — while 
those  who  are  always  occupied  with  the  idea 
of  themselves,  thinking  whether  they  are  prop- 
erly appreciated,  whether  they  are  treated  with 
proper  consideration,  &tc,  are  liable  to  be  con- 
stantly uneasy  and  dissatisfied.' 

The  next  Sunday  Mary  rose  very  early,  and 

began  her  Sunday  lessons  soon  as  she  was  dress- 
ed. 


112  THE    BEATITUDES. 

1  Why  are  you  in  such  haste  ?'  said  her  mo- 
ther. 

i  Because,  mother,  I  think,  then,  I  shall  be 
able  to  recite  them  in  such  good  season,  that 
you  will  have  time  left  before  tea,  to  explain 
another  Beatitude  to  me.' 

Her  plan  succeeded;  and  seated  by  her  mo- 
ther's side  with  Testament  in  hand,  she  rear! 
'Blessed  are  they  that  hunger  and  thirst  after 
righteousness,  for  they  shall  be  filled.' 

'  Now,'  said  she,  'I  can  have  no  idea  of 
what  it  is  to  hunger  or  thirst  for  anything  but 
our  daily   food  or  drink.' 

4  This,' replied  her  mother,  '  is  what  is  term- 
ed figurative  language.  Our  Saviour  here  com- 
pares the  strong  and  habitual  desire  which  the 
good  man  feels,  to  do  always  that  which  is  right; 
to  perform  every  duty  so  well  as  to  seem  righ- 
teous in  the  sight  of  God;  this  he  compares  to 
the  cravings  of  the  hungry  and  thirsty,  and  in 
this  way  expresses  the  idea  more  forcibly,  per- 
haps, than  he  could  have  done  in  any  other.' 

1  It  reminds  me,  mother,  of  what  he  said  of 
himself— that  his  meat  and  drink  was  to  do  the 
will  of  his  Father  in  Heaven.' 


THE    BEATITUDES.  113 

*  I  am  very  glad  you  recollect  it,  my  dear. 
Your  quotation  is  very  appropriate,  and  will  as- 
sist my  explanation.  To  do  the  will  of  their 
Father  in  Heaven  is  likewise  the  meat  and 
drink  of  those  who  hunger  and  thirst  after  right- 
eousness; and  in  saying'  (hat  '  they  shall  he  fill- 
ed,'our  Saviour  gives  the  assurance  that  those 
who  honestly  and  earnestly  seek  to  do  that 
which  is  right,  shall  not  mistake  their  duty;  and 
compares  the  satisfaction  they  will  feel  from  the 
rewards  of  a  good  conscience,  to  that  of  being 
filled  or  satisfied  with  food.  Not  that  the  pleas- 
ure is  not  of  a  higher  kind,  but  the  same  in  de- 
gree; for,  as  the  hungry,  man  after  eating  a  good 
meal,  has  his  appetite  perfecily  satisfied;  so, 
the  good  man  in  fulfilling  his  desires  for  ho- 
liness and  usefulness,  experiences  a  gratifica- 
tion which  is  full  and  complete.' 

1  I  am  afraid,'  said  Mary,  '  that  it  will  be  a 
great  while  before  I  can  be  said  to  hunger  and 
thirst  after  goodness;  though  1  am  sure  I  like 
to  see  it  in  others,  and  to  feel  it  in  myself.' 

i  And  yet,  my  dear,  a  little  child  may  have 
this  strong  desire,  as  well  as  an  older  person. 
The  duties  of  children  are,  to  be  sure,  confined 


114  THE    BEATITUDES. 

within  a  small  sphere;  but  still  they  are  impor- 
tant, and  such  as  make  them  accountable  to 
that  great  Being  who  has  given  them  their  ex- 
istence and  made  them  rational  creatures. 
Youth  is  the  time  to  fit  ourselves  for  all  that  we 
are  to  do  and  to  be  in  after  life.  You  know 
I  have  often  told  you  that  unless  you  form  a 
habit  of  neatness,  for  instance,  or  of  application 
to  your  studies,  now,  you  may  never  acquire  it, 
and  the  same  is  true  with  regard  to  habits  of 
virtue.  Youth  is  the  best,  I  had  almost  said  the 
only  season  to  form  and  fix  them;  and  though 
you  cannot  be  very  useful  now,  perhaps,  you 
may  be  careful  and  diligent  in  preparing  your- 
self for  future  usefulness. 

' 1  should  think,  mother,  that  a  person  whose 
meat  and  drink  it  is  to  do  their  duty,  must  be 
always  happy.' 

'  They  are  certainly  more  sure  of  happiness 
than  any  other  persons;  because,  though  every 
other  source  of  pleasure  may  fail,  there  is 
always  duty  to  be  done;  and  always  the  power 
of  doing  it.  Duties  are  of  a  very  different 
nature,  in  different  circumstances.  The 
healthy  have  active  duties  to  perform,  while  the 


THE    BEATITUDES.  115 

sick,  though  apparently  deprived  of  all  their 
powers, may  in  fact,  be  doing  even  more  good. 
To  the  rich,  belong  the  duties  of  benevolence; 
to  the  poor,  those  of  contentment  and  patience 
in  tribulation.  Poor  old  Mrs  Seers,  who  has 
been  bed-ridden  so  long,  was  complaining  the 
other  day  that  her  usefulness  was  all  gone. 
Her  clergyman  told  her  that  there  was  no  more 
useful  class  of  people  in  the  world,  than  the 
sick  and  suffering,  who  set  an  example  of  pa- 
tience and  submission;  and  I  have  often  thought 
that  the  poor  widow  Morris,  who  labors  so  hard, 
so  faithfully  and  patiently  for  the  support  and 
education  of  her  children,  fulfilled  a  far  wider 
measure  of  duty,  than  the  rich  who  subscribe 
ever  so  liberally  to  charitable  objects.' 

'  But  after  all,  mother,  it  seems  to  me  that 
a  little  child  can  do  nothing  which  shall  entitle 
her  to  this  beatitude.' 

'  Cannot  a  little  child,  my  dear,  be  governed 
by  a  principle  of  obedience  to  the  divine  will, 
as  well  as  an  older  person  ?  Is  not  she  as  ca- 
pable of  being  actuated  by  a  sense  of  what  is 
right,  of  what  is  her  duty  ?  Whatever  she 
does  for  conscience*  sake,  be  it  ever  so  trifling, 


116  THE    BEATITUDES./ 

she  does  because  she  believes  it  is  the  will, 
that  is,  according  to  the  command,  of  her 
Father  in  heaven;  and  by  making  conscience 
her  guide  in  all  things,  she  will  soon  arrive  at 
such  a  degree  of  virtue  that  it  may  be  said,  it 
is  her  meat  and  drink  to  do  the  will  of  her 
Father  in  Heaven. 

'  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that  all  our 
little  actions  are   beneath  a  heavenly   rule.     It 
is  not  so    much  what  we  do,  as  the  motives  and 
principles  of  our  conduct,  that  give  us  favor  in 
the    sight    of   Him,    who  knows    our    secret 
thoughts.     A  little  girl  who  is  affectionate  and 
obedient  to  her  parents,  kind  and  gentle  to  her 
brothers  and  sisters,    and  amiable  and  benevo- 
lent towards  everybody,  is  doing  the  will  of  her 
Father  in  Heaven.     If,  in  the  exercise  of  these 
virtues,  she  is  ready  to  sacrifice  a  favorite  in- 
clination, to  subdue  a  bad  passion,  to  repress  an 
unkind  emotion    for   conscience'    sake,  she  is 
.  certainly  fitting  herself  to  be  numbered  among 
the '  blessed.' 

4  But  do  not  you  think,  mother,  that  some 
great  trials  of  our  virtue  are  necessary  ?  Do 
not  you  suppose  that  Sally  Newman  practises 


THE    BEATITUDES.  117 

more  virtue  than  I  have  an  opportunity  to  prac- 
tise, if  I  were  ever  so  good  ?' 

8 1  think,  my  dear,  that  her  conduct  furnishes 
one  of  the  most  eminent  instances  of  virtue  that 
I  ever  knew.  To  bear  so  patiently  with  her 
stepmother's  unkind  treatment  and  passionate 
humor,  and  to  be  so  faithful,  and  even  tender, 
in  taking  care  of  her  neglected  children,  and 
all  without  the  hope  of  earthly  reward  or  gain, 
but  for  the  sake  of  a  good  conscience,  is 
very  uncommon  merit.  Her  Father,  who  seeth 
in  secret,  will  reward  her  openly.  But  it 
would  have  a  very  bad  effect  upon  us,  to  be 
dissatisfied  with  our  ordinary  course  of  duty. 
He  who  has  a  high  sense  of  duty,  and  looks 
well  into  his  heart,  will  perceive  how  very  far 
below  a  proper  standard  he  is  continually  liable 
to  fall,  even  in  the  ordinary  occurrences  of 
life. 

1  To  whom  was  this  very  sermon  of  our 
Saviour  addressed  ?  Was  it  not  to  a  mixed 
multitude  of  people,  to  whom  his  preaching 
could  have  had  no  reference,  had  not  his  in- 
structions been  intended  to  apply  to  all  the 
common  duties  and  circumstances  of  life  ?' 


118  THE    BEATITUDES. 

*  Well,  mother  if  I  am  only  lo  be  a  good 
daughter,  and  a  kind  sister  and  friend,  that 
seems  very  easy  duty  for  me,  who  have  no 
temptations  to  be  otherwise.' 

4  Never  any  temptations  to  be  otherwise ! 
Think  a  moment,  my  daughter,  and  I  am  sure 
you  will  find  yourself  mistaken.' 

Mary  blushed,  as  she  recollected  that  only 
the  very  day  before,  when  left  to  her  own 
decision,  as  to  indulging  in  some  favorite  holi- 
day pursuit,  which  she  knew  very  well  her 
mother  did  not  approve,  she  followed  the  bent 
of  her  own  inclinations,  rather  than  her  moth- 
er's wishes.  She  threw  her  arms  about  her 
mother's  neck — 

1  You  are  right,  mother,'  said  she,  '  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  be  good  as  we  ought  to  be,  in  any  situa- 
tion; I  will  try  to  be  better  than  I  have  been, 
and  for  conscience'  sake.' 

So  saying,  she  followed  her  mother  at  the 
sound  of  the  bell  which  summoned  them  to  tea. 


*  I  am  glad,'  said  Mary,  when  she  was  going 


THE    BEATITUDES.  119 

to  bed,  '  that  there  is  to  be  a  fast  this  week. 
It  will  be  an  excellent  time  to  get  another  ex- 
planation of  a  beatitude  from  mother.'  When 
the  day  arrived,  she  did  not  forget  her  project; 
but  sat  down  by  her  mother  as  soon  as  they 
returned  from  church  in  the  afternoon,  and,  as 
if  it  were  all  a  matter  of  course,  began  to  read, 
'  Blessed  are  the  merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain 
mercy.' 

'I  have  done  quite  too  many  merciful  errands 
for  a  certain  merciful  lady  not  to  understand 
what  that  means,'  said  she  kissing  her  mother. 

'But  there  are  many  other  ways  of  being 
merciful  besides  giving  to  the  poor,'  said  her 
mother,  '  though  that  is  a  duty  which  our  Sa- 
viour enjoins  with  g  reat  urgency;  so  much  so, 
that  in  speaking  of  the  final  judgment,  he  repre- 
sents himself  as  bidding  the  good  into  his  Fa- 
ther's kingdom,  because  they  had  given  food  to 
the  hungry,  drink  to  the  thirsty,  clothes  to  the 
naked,  and  kind  attentions  to  the  sick  and  the 
prisoner.  Still,  when  we  give  of  our  abun- 
dance that  which  we  shall  never  miss  ourselves, 
it  is  no  great  merit,  though  it  would  certainly 
be  very  wrong  to  do  otherwise.  Your  dear 
9 


120  THE    BEATITUDES. 

aunt  Maria,  who  has  a  good  deal  of  money  at  her 
disposal,  is  very  scrupulous  about  indulging 
herself  in  dress  and  ornaments,  such  as  other 
ladies  think  quite  indispensable:  she  prefers 
expending  the  money  they  would  cost,  in  acts 
of  benevolence.  Wherever  she  is,  the  sick 
and  the  poor  are  her  care;  and  she  delights, 
too,  in  furnishing  the  means  of  education  to 
intelligent  little  children  whose  parents  are 
unable  to  afford  them  such  advantages.  Once 
I  was  with  her  when  she  was  on  the  point  of 
purchasing  a  pair  of  gold  bracelets,  which  are 
really  a  convenient  as  well  as  an  ornamental 
article  of  dress;  but  after  turning  them  over  in 
her  hand  a  moment,  she  laid  them  down — it 
was  on  New  Year's  eve— -she  took  the  money 
she  would  otherwise  have  paid  for  the  braceletsr 
and  appropriated  it  to  the  purchase  of  books, 
which  she  presented  as  a  new  year's  gift,  to  a 
poor  little  girl  of  her  acquaintance.' 

'O,'  said  Mary,  *I  wish  I  could  be  like  my 
dear  aunt  Maria,  in  this  and  everything  else; 
but  then  I  have  no    money,  you  know.' 

k  Still,  my  dear,  if  you  wish  it,  I  think  I  can 
put  you  in  a  way  to  cultivate  just  such  a  dis- 


THE    BEATITUDES.  121 

position  for  benevolence.  To  be  sure  you  have 
no  valuable  toys  to  dispose  of;  no  rocking 
horse  to  sell,  as  was  the  case  with  a  little  boy  I 
heard  of  the  other  day.' 

*  O,  do  tell  me  about  him,  mother.' 

*  His  name  was  Lewis,  and  I  will  call  it 
1  The  Story  of  Lewis  and  his  Rocking 
Horse.' 

'  This  little  boy  was  walking  with  his  mother 
one  evening  past  a  poor  humble  abode,  where 
lived  a  widow  with  six  young  children.  All 
the  family  were  assembled  in  a  corner  of  the 
yard;  one  little  girl  was  crying  bitterly,  and  the 
poor  mother,  who  was  a  good  woman,  and 
labored  hard  for  the  support  of  her  family, 
looked  as  if  something  had  happened,  that  it 
was  very  hard  for  her  to  bear.  On  approach- 
ing nearer,  they  discovered  a  cow  lying  dead 
upon  the  ground.  The  little  girl  who  had 
been  crying,  perceived  something  in  the  faces 
of  Lewis  and  his  mother  that  encouraged  her 
to  speak. 

1  Only  see,'  said  she,*  our  poor  cow  is  dead, 
quite  dead.  She  has  been  sick,  and  we  could 
not  cure  her  all  we  could  do.     She  was  a  good 


122  THE    BEATITUDES. 

cow,  she  was,  and  she  gave  us  our  milk  every 
morning  and  every  night,'  said  the  child,  uncon- 
sciously patting  the  neck  of  the  poor  animal, 
'  and  when  Susy  was  milking  her,  I  used  to 
stand  by  and  say  the  verses  out  of  the  book  that 
the  lady  gave  me — 

Thank  you,  pretty  cow,  that  made 
Pleasant  milk,  to  soak  my  bread. J 

And  then  Susy  would  let  me  go  with  her  and 
drive  her  to  pasture,  and  1  would  be  good  all 
day  long,  so  that  I  might  go  at  night  too,  and 
bring  her  home.' 

Here  the  idea  of  all  the  pleasures  she  had 
lost  quite  overcame  her,  and  she  began  to  cry 
again.  One  of  her  sisters  led  her  into  the 
house,  and  then  Lewis'?  mother  made  some 
kind  inquiries  of  the  poor  woman  about  the  loss 
of  her  cow,  in  such  a  way  as  to  show  that  she 
felt  sorry  for  her;  for  nothing  is  more  accepta- 
ble to  such  people  than  some  expressions  of  in- 
terest and  sympathy. 

The  woman  said  she  was  a  poor  widow,  and 
worked  hard  for  the  support  of  her  children; 
with  the  help  of  her  cow  she  had  been  able  to 
keep  them  comfortable;  but   without  that,   she 


THE    BEATITUDES.  123 

feared  they  must  suffer,  as  she  had  no  means 
of  buying  another.  Her  lips  trembled,  and  the 
tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  though  she  looked  meek 
and  uncomplaining. 

After  saying  that  they  wished  her  to  send, 
every  day,  to  them,  for  a  pail  of  skimmilk,  Lew- 
is and  his  mother  left  her,  promising  to  come 
and  see  her  again. 

The  moment  they  were  out  of  hearing,  Lew- 
is said,  ?  1  hope  father  will  buy  the  poor  wo- 
man a  cow,  don't  you  think  he  will,  mother?' 
1  I  fear,  my  dear,  that  he  cannot  afford  such 
a  sum  as  would  be  necessary;  for,  though  he 
works  hard  at  his  profession,  his  means  are  no 
more  than  sufficient  for  our  comfortable  sup- 
port.' 

c  O,  I  wish  I  was  a  man,'  said  Lewis,  '  and 
then  I  could  do  some  work  and  get  some  money 
to  buy  a  cow.' 

'  It  is  easier  to  feel  kindly  than  to  do  a  gener- 
ous act,'  said  his  mother;  {  now,  I  think  you 
have  the  means,  if  you  choose  to  use  them,  of 
buying  a  cow  for  this  poor  woman.' 

c  I  have  the  means  !'  said  Lewis;  '  how,  what 
do  you  mean,  mother  t 


124  THE    BEATITUDES. 

{  You  know  the  rocking  horse  your  uncle 
gave  you — you  are  very  fond  of  it — and  it  gives 
you  a  great  deal  of  pleasure;  but  do  you  think 
it  is  worth  as  much  to  you  as  a  cow  would  be 
to   that  poor  family  ?' 

Lewis  looked  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  and 
we  are  not  sure  that  it  was  not  quite  as  much 
to  save  himself  from  confessing  his  unwilling- 
ness to  part  with  his  favorite  toy,  (for  after  all, 
a  rocking  horse  is  but  a  toy,)  as  out  of  regard 
for  the  feelings  of  his  uncle,  that  he  replied, 
'  Why,  mother,  do  you  think  it  would  be  prop- 
er for  me  to  part  with  my  dear  uncle's  gift?' 

'  I  am  quite  confident,'  said  his  mother, 
J  that  your  uncle,  so  far  from  objecting  to  your 
parting  with  it,  for  such  a  purpose,  would  be 
gratified  that  you  should  do  so — but  I  will  not 
urge  you;  I  had  rather  the  matter  should  be 
left  to  the  decision  of  your  own  feelings.' 

'  How  do  you  know,  mother,'  said  Lewis, 
'that  the  money  I  should  get  for  my  rocking- 
horse,  would  be  enough  to  buy  a  cow?' 

'  If  not,  my  dear,  1  will  wear  my  old  coat 
another  yeair  instead  of  getting  a  new  one  in  the 
fall,  aslhadiintended,  and  the   money  which 


THE   BEATITUDES.  135 

would  otherwise  have  been  appropriated  to  its 
purchase,  you  shall  have  to  make  up  the  defi- 
ciency.' 

It  seemed  to  Lewis,  at  first,  that  he  could 
not  think  of  selling  his  rocking  horse,  of  which 
he  was  very  fond  indeed.  He  was  in  the  hab- 
it of  getting  upon  it  every  day  in  the  intervals  of 
his  lessons,  and  thought  he  could  not  possibly 
do  without  it. 

The  next  day  he  repaired  to  it  as  usual,  for 
his  recreation,  but  he  did  not  enjoy  it  as  he  had 
done  before.  Somehowr  or  other  it  seemed  to 
him  like  a  forbidden  amusement,  in  which  it 
was  wrong  to  indulge.  That  night  he  had  a  sin- 
gular dream,  which  he  related  to  his  mother  as 
being  very  curious  indeed.  He  said  he  thought 
in  his  dream,  that  he  was  very  hungry,  and  that 
he  searched  the  house  in  vain  for  something  to 
eat — not  a  scrap  of  anything  could  he  find  ;  that 
his  mother  seemed  to  pity  him,  and  looked  very 
sad,  but  knowing  there  was  nothing  in  the  house, 
did  not  say  a  word.  He  had  been  without  food 
all  day,  and  at  length  became  perfectly  ravenous. 
Then  he  remembered  the  cow,  which  he  had 
seen  standing  in  the  yard,  and  went  to  try  if  he 


126  TEE    BEATITUDES. 

could  not  get  some  of  her  milk.  But  lo  !  and 
behold  !  when  he  got  to  her  he  found,  to  his 
great  consternation,  that  it  was  only  a  wooden 
cow,  covered  with  skin,  to  look  like  a  real  cow — 
just  as  his  rocking  horse  was  made  to  look  like  a 
real  horse. 

His  mother  smiled  at  the  dream,but  Lewis  look- 
ed very  sober  about  it.  :  I  suppose  I  know,' 
said  he,  •'  what  made  me  have  that  dream  ;  and 
if  I  can  neither  enjoy  my  horse  in  the  day,  nor 
sleep  without  having  bad  dreams  at  night,  1  think 
I  may  as  well  sell  him  at  once.' 

'  But  I  should  be  sorry,'  said  his  mother,  '  to 
have  you  influenced  by  such  selfish  motives  in 
parting  with  your  horse.' 

lVVhy,Ido  not  think,mother,that  they  are  entire- 
ly selfish.  My  dream  wraked  me  very  early  this 
morning,  and  while  1  was  lying,  waiting  to  hear 
somebody  up  in  the  house,  I  thought  the  matter 
all  over,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  1  should 
enjoy  more  in  seeing  all  those  poor  children 
come  round  the  new  cow  with  happy  faces,  and 
in  thinking  how  much  comfort  they  would  have^ 
in  her,  than  I  ever  did  with  my  rocking  horse, 
even  before  you  suggested  to  me  that  1  had  bet- 


THE    BEATITUDES.  127 

ter  give  it  up.  Charles  Rodman  says  his  mo- 
ther has  long  been  wishing  to  buy  him  a  rock- 
ing horse ;  so  if  you  please,  mother,  I  will  sell 
it  to  him  ;  and  when,  sometimes,  I  get  thinking 
what  I  shall  do  to  amuse  myself,  and  begin  to 
long  for  my  horse  again,  I  will  just  take  a  walk 
down  to  the  poor  woman's  at  milking  time.' 

His  mother,  of  course,  highly  approved  this 
plan  :  the  horse  was  sold,  and  the  cow  pur- 
chased. Lewis's  little  sister  insisted  upon  tak- 
ing her  spending  money  to  buy  a  new  milking 
pail  and  stool  for  Susy  ;  and  Lewis  experienced 
all  the  delight  he  had  anticipated  from  seeing 
the  joy  which  beamed  in  the  faces  of  the  whole 
family,  when  the  cow  was  driven  into  the  yard, 
and  they  were  told  it  was  to  be  their  own,1 

'  O,  mother,'  said  Mary,  when  the  story  was 
finished,  c  how  I  wish  I  had  a  rocking  horse  to 
sell' 

'  As  I  said  before,  my  dear  Mary,  I  can  tell 
you  something  you  can  do  towards  providing 
yourself  with  the  means  of  benevolence,  and 
something,  too,  which  will  require,  perhaps, 
more  of  an  effort  than  Lewis  was  obliged  to 
make,  in  parting  with  the  horse,' 
9* 


128  THE    BEATITUDES. 

1  What  can  you  mean,  mother  ?  ' 

'  You  know,  dear,  that  you  are  very  careless 
of  your  books,  and  not  very  careful  of  your 
clothes.  Now  if  you  would  thoroughly  improve 
in  these  respects,  I  could  well  afford,  from  what 
you  would  save  in  that  way,  to  give  you,  eve;y 
six  months,  two  or  three  useful  books  to  send  to 
that  little  cousin  of  yours  at  Chenango,  who  has 
such  a  passion  for  reading,  and  hardly  any 
books  at  all.  And  besides  these,  I  could  also 
give  you  a  good  new  garment  for  the  poor  in- 
valid we  have  spoken  of  before,  whose  comfort- 
less appearance  has  often  excited  your  pity.' 

*  O,  that  would  be  delightful,  mother,  and  I 
certainly  will  try  my  best.' 

'  Well,  my  daughter,  only  persevere  in  this 
determination,  and  you  will  certainly  succeed. 
It  is  easier  to  make  such  a  sacrifice  as  Lewis 
did,  though  it  was  a  noble,  generous  act,  and 
one  to  which  few  children,  I  fear,  would  be 
equal ;  it  is  easier  to  make  such  a  sacrifice, 
which  is  done  in  a  moment,  and  the  full  reward 
of  which  is  immediately  enjoyed,  than  to  perse- 
vere in  a  continual  succession  of  efforts,  day 
after  day,  and  month  after  month,  whose  recom- 


THE    BEATITUDES. 


129 


pense  is  still  uncertain,  until  the  term  of  trial  is 
completed  ;  and  even  if  secure,  would  seem  to 
you  very  remote.  But  try,  my  dear,  and  1  am 
sure  you  will  accomplish  it.  If  not,  there  will 
be  so  much  lost  to  the  needy,  and  you  must 
bear  the  reproach.' 

1  After  all,  mother,  it  will  be  but  very  little 
that  I  can  give,  compared  to  what  Lewis  gave.' 

<  Console  yourself,  then,  with  recollecting  the 
commendation  which  our  Saviour  bestowed  up- 
on the  poor  woman  who  cast  two  mites  into  the 
treasury.  I  remember  when  you  were  a  very 
little  girl,  and  were  reading  this  account,  you 
laughed  outright,  atthe  idea  that  anybody  should 
think  of  casting  two  mites  into  the  great  treasury; 
but  you  soon  found  that  our  Saviour  considered 
this  action  highly  praiseworthy.  Jt  is  undoubt- 
edly recorded  to  show  us  that  it  is  not  how  much 
we  give,  but  how  much  in  proportion  to  our 
ability,  that  constitutes  the  merit  of  our  benev- 
olent deeds.' 

4  You  said,  mother,  that  there  were  other 
ways  of  being  merciful  besides  by  giving  alms, 
as  the  scripture  expresses  it :  what  other  ways 
did  you  mean  ? ' 


130  THE    BEATITUDES. 

4  You  may  show  a  merciful  spirit,  my  dear, 
by  bestowing  kind  attentions  and  speaking  words 
of  kindness,  when  you  have  no  money  to  give, 
and  often,  when  money  would  not  be  received, 
for  the  rich  may  sometimes  be  as  thankful  for 
these,  as  the  poor.  You  may,  likewise,  show 
a  merciful  spirit  by  being  tender  to  the  feelings 
of  others  ;  careful  never  to  say  or  do  anything 
that  shall  offend  or  give  pain  ;  and,  above  all, 
you  may  be  tender  of  the  reputations  of  others, 
never  joining  in  illnatured  censure,  but  being 
always  anxious  to  screen  from  observation,  so 
far  as  you  can,  the  faults  of  those  with  whom 
you  associate,  and  bring  into  notice  their  good 
qualities.  And  now,  dear,  I  cannot  talk  with 
you  any  longer  ;  we  must  wait  till  another  time 
for  the  explanations  thatremain.' 

1  I  wish  you  could  talk  with  me  more  now,' 
said  Mary,  '  but  i  know  I  ought  not  to  ask  it  of 
you,  you  have  already  been  so  very  kind.' 


THE    BEATITUDES.  131 

Some  time  elapsed  after  this  before  Mary  had 
a  chance  to  obtain  another  precious  hour  for 
these  favorite  explanations.  At  length,  one 
evening  when  they  were  left  almost  alone  to- 
gether, she  waited  with  impatience  she  could 
hardly  help  expressing,  for  the  last  visitor  to  take 
his  leave,  and  when  he  did  so,  exclaimed,  '  Now, 
mother,  we  are  all  alone,  and  though  it  is  near- 
ly my  bedtime,  will  you  not  let  me  sit  up  long 
enough  to  hear  you  talk  with  me  about  the  be- 
atitudes, and  I  will  get  up  just  as  early  tomorrow, 
and  be  very  diligent.' 

1  Well  dear,  let  us  begin  at  once  then,'  re- 
plied her  mother. 

Mary  eagerly  took  her  little  Testament  from 
the  shelf — '  Here  we  begin  tonight,'  said  she — 
4  "  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall 
see  God."  Now,  mother,  who  are  the  pure  in 
h  eart.' 

'  They  are  those,  my  dear,  who,  in  every- 
thing they  do,  are  actuated  by  the  best  inten- 
tions, and  whose  motives  are,  in  fact,  what  they 
seem  to  be.  Many  people  in  this  world  get 
credit  for  goodness  they  do  not  possess— what 
pp ears  so  good  in  them   may  proceed  from  a 


132  THE    BEATITUDES. 

selfish  or  unworthy  motive.  You  are  not  yet 
quite  old  enough  to  be  told  in  how  many,  and 
in  what  ways,  an  older  person  may  be  faulty  in 
this  respect — but  when  I  apply  what  I  say  to 
children  I  think  you  will  understand  me  at  once. 
'  A  little  child  may  be  generous,  merely  be- 
cause she  wishes  her  generosity  should  be  ad- 
mired, and  not  because  she  really  thinks  '  it  is 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive  :'  she  may 
be  good  natured,  and  obliging  to  her  compan- 
ions— not  from  a  sincere  desire  to  promote  their 
happiness — but  because  she  likes  to  make  her- 
self a  favorite  among  them,  or  in  other  words, 
loves  popularity:  she  may  be  assiduous  in  her 
studies  from  a  desire  to  eclipse  some  rival,  per- 
haps, or  to  obtain  a  prize,  rather  than  from  a 
sense  of  the  value  of  time,  and  the  duty  of  im- 
proving, to  the  utmost,  her  opportunities  for 
spending  it  profitably  :  she  may  tell  the  truth — 
not  so  much  from  a  principle  of  obedience  to 
the  command  of  God,  or  from  aversion  to  false- 
hood, as  from  a  fear  of  being  disgraced  :  she 
may  go  to  church  merely  to  pass  off  time,  to 
look  about,  or  to  exhibit  some  new  article  of 
4ress — rather  than   from   any  desire  to  be  in- 


THE   BEATITUDES.  133 

structed  by  the  sermon,  or  to  join  in  the  wor- 
ship: and  she  may  say  her  prayers  only  to 
avoid  reproof  for  neglecting  them — and  not  be- 
cause she  loves  to  thank  God  for  his  goodness, 
or  to  seek  his  favor.  In  all  these  instances  she 
would  not  only  act  from  unworthy  motives,  but 
in  most*  of  them,  she  would  expect  that  her 
motives  would  seem  better  than  they  really 
were.' 

f  O,  mother,'  said  Mary,  j  how  can  we  help 
being  governed  by  some  of  these  wrong  motives 
— it  seems  to  me  almost  impossible.' 

'It  is  very  difficult,  I  admit,  my  dear  Mary; 
but  that  is  a  reason  not,  for  discouragement 
but  for  greater  care  and  watchfulness.  The 
pure  in  heart  love  virtue  for  its  own  sake,  and 
because  it  is  pleasing  to  God.  To  gain  his 
approbation,  should  be  the  first  motive  of  all, 
young  and  old.  I  know  it  is  difficult  for  little 
children  to  keep  this  moiive  always  in  their 
minds;  it  is  so  much  more  natural  for  them  to 
be  occupied  with  whatever  is  present  to  their 
senses,  through  the  medium  of  which  the 
mind  is  continually  furnished  with  ideas, 
than  with  the  thought  of  Him  whom  they  can 


134  THE    BEATITUDES. 

neither  see  nor  comprehend.  They  should  try 
to  think  of  him  always,  as  in  that  relation  in 
which  he  seems  pleased  to  represent  himself 
as  their  Heavenly  Father — and  when  they 
remember  how  sad  it  is  to  grieve  or  offend  their 
earthly  parents,  they  must  consider  how  much 
more  sinful  it  is,  to  offend  Him,  to  whom  they 
owe  a  great  deal  more — who  is  not  only  their 
kind  Father  in  Heaven,  but  a  holy  being  who 
'cannot  look  upon  iniquity  but  with  abhor- 
rence'— and  an  omniscient  being,  that  is  a  being 
who  knows  all  things,  who  sees  their  hearts  and 
knows  all  their  thoughts.' 

'  O,  mother,'  said  Mary,  '  when  I  think  of 
all  this,  it  makes  me  afraid  that  I  can  never 
please  him  as  I  ought.' 

'Wei!,  my  dear,  in  proportion  to  your  fear 
must  be  your  carefulness;  and  you  know,  for 
your  encouragement,  that  this  great  Being  is 
very  merciful  and  forgiving,  and  that  he  prom- 
ises his  aid  to  all  that  seek  it.  When  a  temp- 
tation is  presented,  you  can  ask  for  strength  to 
resist  it,  and  every  day,  when  you  pray  '  De- 
liver me  from  evil,'  you  must  remember  that 
the  greatest  of  all  evils  is  sin.' 


THE    BEATITUDES.  135 

1 1  suppose,  mother,  said  Mary,  that  hypo- 
crites, such  as  the  Pharisees,  are  farthest  of  all, 
from  being  "  pure  in  heart."  ' 

1  Yes,  my  dear,  they  sought  only  the  praise 
of  such  men  as  could  be  imposed  upon  by  mere 
appearance,  and  their  ostentatious  parade  of 
fasts,  and  prayers,  and  almsgivings,  was  so  much 
the  more  offensive,  because  they  were  notori- 
ous for  violating  many  of  the  moral  duties  of 
life.  Having  no  principle  of  virtue,  they  sub- 
stituted or  endeavored  to  substitute  the  appear- 
ance for  the  reality;  a  foolish,  idle  vanity  was 
the  only  motive  that  governed  them,  and  our 
Saviour  used  harsher  language  towards  them 
than  towards  any  other  people.  This  vanity, 
this  Jove  of  admiration  is  but  too  apt  to  take 
the  place  of  better  motives  in  the  minds  even 
of  the  virtuous,  though  one  would  suppose  it 
might  be  always  prevented  by  the  reflection 
that  God,  whom  it  most  concerns  us  to  please, 
sees  the  springs  of  all  our  actions,  though  they 
are  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  the  world.' 

'  1  should  think,  mother,  that  the  conduct 
of  the  two  gentlemen  that  father  was  mention- 
ing last   night,  afforded  a  good  illustration  of 


136  THE    BEATITUDES. 

proper  and  improper  motives;  such  as  we  have 
been  considering.' 

'What  do  you  allude  to,  my  dear?  I  do 
not  think  I  heard  what  he  said.' 

'He  was  telling  aunt  Maria,  that  he  had 
often  heard  Mr  Shore  admired  for  his  great  lib- 
erality, especially  in  making  large  subscriptions 
and  donations  to  all  charitable  objects,  and  con- 
trasted with  Mr  Home,  who  uniformly  refused 
to  give  anything  for  such  purposes,  and  was 
loudly  and  universally  accused  of  avarice. 

'  Now,'  said  he,  '  it  is  ascertained  that  Mr 
Shore  is  deeply  in  debt,  and  has  actually  rob- 
bed from  his  creditors  all  the  money  with  which 
he  has  been  making  such  a  show  of  benevo- 
lence; while  Mr  Home,  who  formerly  failed 
for  a  large  amount,  and  obtained  a  release 
from  his  creditors,  after  paying  them  all  he 
could,  has  been  all  this  time  saving  every  cent 
that  he  could  spare  from  his  actual  necessi- 
ties, and  patiently  submitting  to  all  the  re- 
proaches that  have  been  cast  upon  him,  until, 
at  length,  he  has  completely  discharged  his 
debts.'  Father  explained  to  me  what  was 
me  ant  by  a  failure,  and  1  could  not  help  admir- 


THE   BEATITUDES. 


137 


ing  Mr  Home  very  much,  though  I  did  not 
think  of  applying  to  him  the  phrase  c  pure  in 
heart,'  until  since  we  have  been  talking  to- 
gether.' 

'  Your  anecdote  is  a  very  pleasing  one,  and 
very  much  to  the  point,  my  dear  Mary.  You 
perceive  that  it  must  have  been  vanity  that  led 
Mr  Shore  to  prefer  a  show  of  virtue  to  real  up- 
rightness of  conduct;  and  that  Mr  Home  was 
too  much  governed  by  his  conscience,  by  a 
principle  of  duty,  to  let  any  other  motive  influ- 
ence him.'  +■ 

'  But  though  our  desire  to  please  the  world 
may  lead  us  astray  so  much,'  said  Mary,  \  it 
surely  is  not  wrong  for  us  to  wish  to  please 
our  friends.' 

'  O  no,  my  dear:  that  wish  to  please  our 
friends  which  springs  from  our  love  to  them, 
is  a  very  different  thing  from  that  wish  to  please 
the  world  which  is  the  result  of  vanity;  and  we 
should  be  thankful  to  God,  that  he  has  furnished 
us  with  so  many  motives  to  goodness,  which 
are  delightful  as  well  as  commendable.  What 
can  be  more  agreeable  to  a  good  little  girl,, 
than  to  conduct  in  such  a  manner  as  will  make 


138  THE    BEATITUDES. 

her  truly  beloved  by  all  those  she  most  wishes 
to  please;  and   this  she  can  effect,    by  doing 
those  things  which  are  pleasing  in  the  sght  of 
God.     She  must  be   very  careful,    however, 
that  she  is  never  tempted  to  appear  better  than 
she  really  is,  and  to  receive  undeserved  praise. 
I  remember  being  very  much  pleased    wiih  a 
little  incident  that  occurred    during  my   visit  at 
your  aunt's,  last  summer.      One  morning,  your 
little  cousin  Julia  got  up  very  early,  and  took 
a  long  walk  before  breakfast.     Her  father  had 
often    expressed  a  wish  that  she    should  do  so 
regulary;  but  as  he  did  not  actually  lay  his  com-, 
mands  upon  her,  and  she  loved  her  bed  dearly, 
she  had  not  been  able  to  overcome  the  repug- 
nance she  felt   to  leaving  it,  at  an  earlier  hour 
than  usual.     On  this  occasion  he  commended 
her  resolution,  and  praised  her  very  much,  say^ 
ing,  that  she  never  pleased  him  so  well  as  wh  en 
she  gave  up   her  own   pleasures,  whether  they 
were  of  lying  in  bed,  or  anything  else,  for  the 
sake  of  gratifying  him.     Julia  burst  into  tears. 
This  seemed  very   strange  to   her  father,  and 
he  insisted  on  knowing  what  was  the  matter. 
<  Why.,  father,'  said  she, '  I  did  not  take  the  walk 


THE   BEATITUDES,  139 

this  morning  to  please  you,  but  because  Henry 
bet  a  shilling  last  night,  that  I  should  not  take 
one  walk,  before  breakfast,  the  whole  sum- 
mer, and  I  wanted  to  gain  the  shilling.'  Julia 
is  extremely  fond  of  her  father,  and  values  his 
praise  more,  almost,  than  .anything  else,  so  that 
the  sorrow  she  felt  from  the  consciousness  of 
not  deserving  it,  in  this  instance,  made  it  very 
hard  for  her  to  own  that  she  did  not;  and  her 
frank  confession  showed  great  strength  of  prin- 
ciple. Perhaps,  there  is  no  greater  temptation 
ever  presented  to  the  mind  of  a  child,  than 
that  of  withholding  the  truth,  when  by  letting 
herself  be  judged  merely  by  what  is  seen, 
she  will  appear  to  much  better  advantage  than 
if  the  real  truth  were  known.' 

'  I  think,  mother,'  said  Mary,  after  express- 
ing her  admiration  of  her  cousin's  frankness, 
4lhat  Julia  must  be  a  very  true  little  girl.' 

( Yes,  my  dear,  I  have  no  doubt  that  she 
has  a  perfectly  honest  mind;  for  it  is  not  in 
speaking  the  trum,  merely,  that  falsehood  is  to 
be  avoided.  That  thorough  principle  of  truth 
which  produces  perfect  sincerity  of  character 
and  conduct,  is  indispensable  to  purity  of  heart; 


140  THE   BEATlTtfDiKSv 

it  is  a  most  important  safeguard  against  the  se- 
ductions of  that  vanity  wbichf  as  I  have  told 
you  before,  so  often  tempts  us  to  give  false 
impressions  of  ourselves, — or  to  let  them  re- 
main when  they  have  been  given  unintention- 
ally,— that  we  may  appear  in  the  most  favor- 
able light.' 

•  One  thing  more,  mother,  and  then,  if  you 
please,  we  will  proceed  to  the  next  beatitude. 
The  pure  in  heart,  it  is  said,  *  shall  see  God' — •• 
what  is  meant  by  that  V 

1 1  suppose,  my  dear,  that  in  consequence 
of  their  own  purity  they  have  a  clearer  percep- 
tion or  understanding  of  his  glorious  purity. 
We  are  said,  you  know,  to  be  created. in  his 
image,  that  is,  with  intelligent  faculties'  capable 
of  being  directed  to  the  wisest  and  best  purpo- 
ses; in  proportion  to  our  abuse  of  these  faculties, 
this  image  is  defaced;  and  in  proportion  to  our 
right  use  of  them,  it  is  retained;  blessed  indeed 
are  they  who,  by  keeping  it  pure  and  spotless, 
most  nearly  resemble, and  can  best  comprehend 
the  great  and  holy  being  who  made  them. 
This  image  is  a  more  glorious  'pattern'  than  that 
shown  to  Moses  on  the  mount, ' of  the  tabernaole, 


THE    BEATITUDES.  141 

and  all  the  instruments  thereof,'  about  which  you 
have  exercised  your  imagination    so   much.' 

'  Thank  you,  my  dear  mother:  and  now  I 
will  read  the  next.' 

'No,  my  daughter,  it  is  quite  too  late;  I  can- 
not let  you  sit  up  any  longer;  but  tomorrow 
evening  your  father  will  be  absent  again,  and 
then  I  shall  have  another  opportunity  to  talk 
with  you.' 


'  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers.  '  '  I  think  I 
shall  like  to  hear  about  the  peacemakers,'  said 
Mary,  the  next  evening,  as  she  claimed  her 
mother's  promise.  '  I  believe  I  know,  mother, 
who  are  the  peacemakers,'  she  continued, '  for 
often,  when  I  am  with  a  number  of  girls  togeth- 
er, some  seem  very  desirous  that  all  should 
agree,  and  are  willing  to  give  up  their  own 
wishes  in  the  choice  of  a  play,  or  as  to  the 
manner  of  spending  their  time,  for  the  sak^ 
of  peace — while  others  are  not  willing  to 


142  THE    BEATITUDES. 

up  anything.  Some  are  not  at  all  careful  about 
giving  offence,  and  say  unkind  words,  or  do 
unkind  things — while  others  are  careful  not 
only  to  do  nothing  which  shall  offend,  but  if  an 
offence  is  committed  against  them,  they  easily 
forgive  it;  if  an  angry  word  is  spoken,  they  give 
that  soft  answer,  which,  as  the  Bible  says, '  turn- 
eth  away  wrath.' 

'I  am  glad  to  find,  my  dear,  that  you  apply 
the  precepts  of  scripture  to  your  own  conduct 
and  that  of  others;  and  I  was  very  much  pleased 
with  the  soft  answer  you  returned  the  other 
day  to  your  impatient  little  brother,  when  he 
reproached  you  so  angrily  for  having  destroyed, 
as  he  supposed  for  your  own  amusement,  the 
little  block-house  he  had  been  building;  and, 
notwithstanding,  that  in  his  impetuosity,  he 
spilled  the  ink,  and  spoiled  the  letter  ycu  had 
been  writing,  you  spoke  very  gently  to  him  and 
said,  'Why,  George,  I  did  not  mean  to  knock 
down  your  house,  and  I  will  build  you  another, 
directly.'  Then,  you  know,  he  not  only  re- 
covered his  good  humor,  but  looked  very  sor- 
rowfully at  the  mischief  lie  had  done;  whereas, 
if  you  had  replied   to  him  in  the   same   tone 


THE    BEATITUDES.  143 

which  he   used  towards  you,  you  would  only 
have  exasperated  him  still  more.' 

c  Well,  mother,  I  must  confess  I  was  a  good 
deal  vexed  at  first,  and  was  upon  the  point  of 
telling  him  so;  but  I  suddenly  recollected  what 
I  had  learned  about  the  soft  answer.' 

'  A  great  many  of  the  wrong  things  we  do, 
my  dear,  would  be  prevented  by  a  little  reflec- 
tion. From  mere  want  of  consideration,  un- 
just reproaches  and  accusations  are  often  has- 
tily made,  and  these  are  the  occasion  of  a  great 
deal  of  angry  feeling.  If  little  George  had  given 
himself  time  to  think  a  moment,  he  would  have 
known  that  your  frock  caught  his  blocks  by 
mere  accident,  as  you  passed  along.  But  we 
cannot  expect  much  reflection  in  young  chil- 
dren, and,  therefore,  should  exercise  towards 
them  a  great  deal  of  forbearance.  Some  chil- 
dren, too,  have  naturally  better  tempers  than 
others,  and  every  allowance  should  be  made  for 
constitutional  infirmity.' 

'  I  never  shall  forget,  mother,  what  you  told 
me  Doctor  Priestley  said  to  his  grand-daughter, 
just  before  he  died: — "  Remember,  little  thing, 
the  hymn  you  have  learned —  Birds  in  their  lit- 
tle nests  agree."  * 
10 


144  THE    BEATITUDES. 

1 1  am  glad  that  it  made  so  deep  an  impres- 
sion upon  your  mind,'  said  her  mother;  '  and 
the  Bible,  too,  says,  you  know — '  Behold  how 
good  and  how  pleasant  a  thing  it  is  for  brethren 
to  dwell  together  in  unity.'  It  is  so  good  and 
so  pleasant,  thai  I  am  anxious  to  point  out  to  you, 
whatever  is  most  apt  to  disturb  such  harmony 
between  brothers  and  sisters. 

1  One  ol  the  most  fruitful  sources  of  ill-temper, 
among  children,  is  teasing,  crossing  each  other's 
inclinations,  just  by  way  of  amusement,  which, 
though  begun  pleasantly  enough,  is  sure  to  end 
in  a  quarrel.  This  teasing  is  always  very 
wrong;  but  it  is  particularly  so,  when  practised 
on  the  part  of  those  who  are  older,  towards 
those  who  are  too  young  to  defend  themselves. 
Good-natured  as  you  are,  my  little  daughter,  I 
have  seen  you  do  this  someumes,  and  I  have 
seen  those  who  are  a  good  deal  older  than  you, 
doit.  Little  children  are  easily  troubled;  their 
own  pleasures,  however  trifling,  seem  as  im- 
portant to  them  as  our  more  serious  concerns 
dp  to  us.  When  little  Grace  is  rolling  her  mar- 
bles about  the  floor,  suddenly  to  gather  them  all 
up,  and  place  them  out  of  her  reach;  when  she 


THE   BfiATlTtJDES.  145 

is  holding  her  hand  for  a  bit  of  apple  or  any- 
thing else  you  may  be  offering  to  her,  suddenly 
to  withdraw  it,  twenty  times  over,  perhaps,  just 
as  she  thinks  she  has  it;  when  she  is  standing  at 
the  window,  intently  gazing  on  some  object  in 
the  street,  to  take  her  forcibly  away — and  all 
this,  just  to  amuse  yourself  with  her  impatience 
and  passion — is  worse  than  if  you  were  to  burn 
her  fingers,  or  feed  her  with  something  hurtful 
— because  the  injury  done  to  her  temper  is  of  a 
more  serious  nature,  and  not  so  easily  remedi- 
ed— it  cannot  be  cured  with  salve  or  medicine.' 

'lam  glad  you  have  mentioned  my  fault,' 
said  Mary, '  for  I  never  thought  before  of  its  be- 
ing so  wrong;  and  now  I  will  try  to  avoid  it 
most  carefully,  together  with  everything  else 
that  a  peacemaker  should  avoid.' 

4  You  recollect  how  much  interested  you  was, 
the  other  day,  in  reading  the  account  of  our 
Saviour's  birth,  and  of  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
that  i  shone  round  about,'  when  the  angel  an- 
nounced the  event — and  of  the  '  multitude  of 
the  heavenly  host'  that  were  suddenly  with  him, 
saying,  '  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and 
on  earth  peace,  and  good   will  towards   men.' 


146  THE    BEATITUDES. 

The  religion  which  our  blessed  Saviour  taught 
is  eminently  a  religion  of  peace  and  good 
will;  and  the  'peacemakers'  seem  to  repeat 
the  glad  proclamation  which  accompanied  his 
birth.' 

'  Yes,  mother,'  said  Mary,  whose  imagina- 
tion easily  kindled,  c  and  there  is  a  glory  shin- 
ing round  about  them.' 

4  You  are  right,  my  dear;  there  is  nothing 
more  beautiful  than  the  gentle  offices  of  peace 
and  good  will.  These  offices  are  constantly 
needed  in  the  familiar  intercourse  of  life,  and 
children  can  perform  a  share  of  them.  Where 
there  is  a  contentious  spirit,  every  word  that  is 
spoken,  every  circumstance  that  happens,  may 
afford  an  opportunity  for  its  indulgence;  but  to 
one  whose  disposition  is  peaceable,  there  hardly 
ever  seems  to  arise  any  occasion  for  a  quarrel, 
or  for  angry  feeling.' 

'  I  know,  mother,  that  we  should  not  get  into 
any  quarrels  ourselves  ;  but  how  can  we  help, 
sometimes,  taking  a  part  in  the  quarrels  of 
others  ;  if  it  so  happens  that  one  of  those  who 
are  at  variance  is  much  more  our  favorite  than 
the  other,  and  we  think  she  has  been  injured, 
how  can  we  help  taking  her  part  ?' 


THE    BEATITUDES.  147 

1  But  you  must  help  it,  my  dear,  if  you  do 
not  wish  to  exasperate  her  still  more  and  in- 
crease the  difficulty  of  a  reconciliation,  which, 
on  the  contrary,  you  should  use  a'l  the  means 
in  your  power  to  promote  ;  saying  and  doing 
everything  you  can  to  pacify  the  angry  feelings 
of  both.' 

'I  think  it  is  tolerably  easy,'  said  Mary,  ' not 
to  resent  slight  offences,  but  when  some  one 
does  or  says  what  I  think  is  very,  very  wrong, 
and  very  unjust,  either  to  me,  or  to  anybody 
that  J  love,  I  am  angry  and  ready  to  quarrel 
about  it,  before  I  think  of  it ;  and  it  seems  to 
me  as  if  I  could  not  possibly  help  being  so.' 

'  Recollect,  my  dear  Mary,  our  Saviour's 
conduct  towards  Peter  when  he  had  thrice  de- 
nied that  he  had  ever  been  with  him  or  knew 
anything  about  him;  and  this,  too,  at  a  time 
when  it  was  particularly  base  and  cruel  to  de-> 
sert  him,  just  as  he  had  been  delivered  into  the 
hands  of  cruel  enemies.  Did  he  overwhelm 
him  with  angry  reproaches?  No;  the  scripture 
says,  '  the  Lord  turned  and  looked  upon  Peter, 
and  he  went  out  and  wept  bitterly.'  I  suppose 
that   look  expressed   tenderness  mingled  with 


148  THE    BEATITUDES. 

grief,  which  affected  Peter  more  and  made  him 
feel  more  penitent,  than  the  severest  reproof 
would  have  done.' 

'  It  must  have  been  a  beautiful  look,  mother, 
and  I  will  try  to  remember  what  you  have  here 
said  about  it.' 

'  Our  Saviour,  in  bidding  us  'overcome  evil 
with  good,'  showed  not  only  an  exalted  mo- 
rality, but  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  princi- 
ples of  our  nature.  There  is  hardly  anything 
so  bad  in  the  disposition  of  another  towards  us, 
that  it  cannot  be  cured  by  kindness.  1  once 
had  a  neighbor  of  a  very  jealous  disposition, 
who  got  seriously  offended  with  me  for  some 
slight  she  fancied  she  had  received — so  much 
so,  that  she  would  hardly  speak  to  me,  and  said 
a  great  many  unkind  things,  which  were  de- 
signed to  create  bad  impressions  of  me  in  the 
neighborhood;  but  1  did  not  change  my  manners 
towards  her,  and  took  care  to  improve  every 
opportunity  that  occurred,  of  doing  her  a  neigh- 
borly kindness,  so  that,  in  time,  she  completely 
recovered  her  good  humor,  and  as  I  had  good 
reason  to  believe,  felt  very  much  ashamed  of 
her  conduct  towards  me.' 


THE    BEATITUDES.  149 

*  That  makes  me  think,  mother,  of  a  little 
girl  at  school,  Emily  Holmes.  She  once  lent 
a  lead  pencil  to  one  Jane  Sharpe,  who  is  noto- 
rious for  her  bad  temper;  and  Jane,  getting 
angry,  because  Emily  wanted  it,  and  insisted 
upon  having  it  back  again  before  she  had  done 
with  it,  threw  it  into  the  fire.  It  so  happened, 
that  soon  after  this,  Emily's  uncle  made  her  a 
present  of  a  large  bunch  of  pencils;  which  she 
took  lo  school  for  the  purpose  of  distributing 
them  among  the  girls.  One  said  '  I  would  not 
give  Jane  Sharpe  any,'  and  another  added  '  O ! 
no,  it  is  an  excellent  opportunity  to  revenge 
yourself,'  but  Emily  gave  no  heed  to  them, 
and  Jane  shared  with  the  rest.  She  looked 
reaiiy  mortified,  however,  and  Emily  says 
she  has  been  perfectly  good  matured  to  her 
ever  since.' 

'  And  did  you  not  admire  Emily's  conduct  in 
this  instance  ?' 

'  O  yes,  mother,  certainly,  I  did,  though 
some  of  the  girls  seemed  quite  to  despise  her 
for  it;  remarking  that  Emily  had  no  spirit  at  all. 
I  admire  the  peace-making  system  in  its  effects, 
very   much,  though  it  seems    to  me,  that   it  is 


150  THE    BEATITUDES. 

not  easily  adopted  in  all  cases.  Have  you 
any  farther  advice  or  warning  to  give  me  on  the 
subject  ?' 

'  Yes,  my  dear,  there  is  one  very  important 
thing  to  be  observed  by  those  who  wish  to 
promote  peace,  that  I  have  not  yet  mentioned; 
and  that  is  an  extreme  carefulness  in  not  repeat- 
ing to  one  person  what  you  may  have  heard 
said  to  his  disadvantage  by  another.  Such 
remarks  are  sometimes  made  accidentally  or 
thoughtlessly;  or,  perhaps  sometimes  unavoida- 
bly, and  it  should  be  considered  the  positive 
duty  of  those  who  hear  them  not  only  never  to 
repeat  them  intentionally — but  to  observe  the 
strictest  caution  in  regard  to  them.  The  Bible 
says,  *  the  words  of  a  talebearer  are  as  wounds; 
and  where  there  is  no  talebearer  the  strife 
ceaseth.'  If  you  have  ever  had  an  angry  or  a 
painful  feeling  excited  in  this  way,  you  know 
why  you  should  be  very  careful  not  to  occa- 
sion anything  of  the  same  kind  in  the  same 
way.' 

*  I  have  felt  these  wounds,  mother,  many 
times;  for  there  is  one  acquaintance  of  mine 
who  seems  to  delight  in  treasuring  up  everything 


THE    BEATITUDES.  151 

she  ever  hears  to  my  disadvantage,  and  then 
repeating  it  to  me.  I  was  made  very  unhappy 
by  it  at  first,  but  I  soon  fouud  out  that  in  her 
extreme  anxiety  to  find  something  of  the  kind  to 
tell  of,  she  would  frequently  mistake  the  inten- 
tion of  what  was  said,  and  sometimes,  I  sus- 
pected, misrepresent  it  on  purpose.  Once  I 
remember,  she  told  me  that  my  favorite  friend, 
Sally  Morgan,  said  I  was  the  silliest  girl  she 
ever  knew;  1  thought  this  was  very  strange  for 
her  to  say,  and  determined  I  would  speak  to 
her  about  it.  She  laughed,  and  said  '  that  mis- 
chievous child  told  you  only  a  part  of  what  I 
said,  which  was,  that  you  was  the  silliest  girl  I 
ever  knew,  because  you  bore  with  all  the  girls' 
humors  and  did  not  stand  up  for  your  own 
rights  more.' 

'  Well,  my  dear,  as  a  general  rule,  it  is  always 
fair  to  distrust  habitual  talebearers,  because,  as 
they  can  be  actuated  by  no  good  motives,  it  is 
reasonable  to  doubt  whether  they  always  use 
fair  means,  i  could  tell  you  a  good  many  in- 
stances of  very  serious  mischief  produced  in  this 
way,  besides  that  '  strife'  which  the  text  speaks 
of;  but  at  present,  I  choose  to  confine  myself 
10* 


152  THE    BEATITUDES. 

to  those  consequences  of  talebearing  which  are 
so  destructive  to 'peace.'  And  since  you  see, 
my  dear  Mary,  how  odious  and  sinful  a  vice  it 
is,  be  careful  lest  you  should  sometimes  be 
guilty  of  it,  from  mere  indiscretion.' 

'1  certainly  will,  mother,  be  very  careful.  I 
dislike  very  much  to  see  quarrelling;  and  above 
all  I  should  feel  ashamed  and  sorry  to  be  the 
occasion  of  making  a  quarrel.' 

'You  remember,  Mary,  what  you  always  say 
is  your  favorite  text  in  the  who'e  Bible.' 

'  O  yes,  mother,  it  is  always  that  beautiful 
one,  •  God  is  love;  and  whoso  dwelleth  in  love, 
dwelleth  in  God  and  God  in  him.' 

'  How  should  we  all  seek,  then,  to  dwell  in 
love  !  It  is  said  of  the  apostle  John,  who,  you 
know,  was  the  '  beloved  disciple,'  that  he  lived 
to  a  great  age,  and  was  often  saying  to  the 
Christians  that  surrounded  him,  'My  little 
children,  love  one  another;'  and  if  you  will 
think  one  moment,  my  dear  Mary,  you  will 
recollect  how  beautiful  every  exhibition  of 
harmony  and  love,  which  we  witness  among 
animals,  appears  to  us;  how  beautiful  to  see  the 
hen  with  her  chickens,  the  '  birds  in  their  little 


THE    BEEATITUDS.  153 

nests  agree,'  an  d  the  faithful,  tender  dove. 
Thus  you  perceive  that  God  has  written  the 
law  of  love  on  his  works,  as  well  as  in  his  word; 
that  it  may  be  constantly  impressed  upon  our 
minds  in  all  iis  force  and  beauty.' 


Perhaps  some  little  girls  will  wonder  what 
Mary's  mother  could  have  to  say  to  her  on  the 
subject  of  the  next  and  last  beatitude.  c  Bles- 
sed are  they  which  are  persecuted  for  right- 
eousness' sake,  for  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.'  s  Blessed  are  ye  when  men  shall  re- 
vile you,  and  persecute  you,  and  say  all  manner 
of  evil  against  you  falsely,  for  my  sake.'  Ma- 
ry wondered  too,  and  said  to  her  mother,  that 
though  she  did  not  see  how  she  was  liable  to  be 
persecuted,  even  if  she  had  any  righteousness, 
yet  still  she  should  like  to  know  what  was  meant 
by  persecution. 

1  When  you  are  old  enough  to  read  church 
history,'  her  mother  replied,  '  you  will  perceive 
haw  much  the  immediate  followers  of  Christ 
needed  the  promise  and    encouragement  con- 


154  THE    BEATITUDES. 

tained  in  this  beatitude.  Persecution  is  unjust, 
unkind,  or  cruel  treatment  designedly  inflicted 
by  one  person  upon  another;  and  the  early 
Christians  suffered  the  most  dreadful  kind  of 
persecution — bodily  torture  and  death.  The 
Jews,  who  lived  at  the  time  of  our  Saviour's 
birth,  expected  that  the  promised  Messiah  who 
had  been  predicted  long  before  in  the  writings 
of  their  prophets,  would  be  a  great  king,  clothed 
with  splendor,  and  invested  with  power  and 
iJches;  who  would  "restore  again  the  kingdom 
to  Israel,"  for  then  the  Jews  had  long  ceased  to 
be  a  n;;tion.  and  Judea  had  become  a  Roman 
province.  Accordingly,  when  Jesus,  of  a  low- 
ly birth,  the  son  of  a  carpenter,  so  poor  that  he 
had  not  where  to  lay  his  head,  and  who  declar- 
ed that  his  kingdom  was  not  of  this  world,  was 
proclaimed  the  Messiah,  the  Jews,  many  of 
them,  were  enraged  both  at  him  and  at  them 
who  believed  in  him.  Their  dislike  was  con- 
firmed, and  their  fury  increased  when  they  found 
that  both  by  the  purity  of  his  life  and  by  the 
docu  ines  he  taught,  he  reproved  them  for  their 
sins,  and  that  the  relgion  which  he  preached, 
not  only  expressly  forebade  many  vices  in  which 


THE    BEATITUDES.  155 

they  had  been  accustomed  to  permit  themselves 
a  free  indulgence,  but  also  condemned  some 
practices  for  which  they  gave  themselves  great 
credit,  and  on  account  of  which,  they  were 
disposed  to  thank  God,  like  the  Pharisee,  that 
they  were  not  as  other  men.  The  Romans, 
too,  and  all  who  had  heard  of  this  new  religion 
were  offended  for  the  same  reason,  that  it  re- 
quired such  strict  purity  of  life.  Consequent- 
ly, those  who  became  Christians,  and  acknow- 
ledged themselves  believers  in  Jesus,  as  the 
promised  Messiah,  were  surrounded  by  enemies 
on  every  side;  both  among  the  Gentiles  and  the 
Jews.  Gentiles,  you  know,  is  a  word  used  in 
distinction  from  Jews;  all  besides  Jews  are  Gen- 
tiles.' 

*  O  mother,  how  could  they  be  angry  at  such 
a  blessed  being,  and  at  those  who  loved  him, 
and  tried  to  be  like  him?' 

*  When  people  are  so  very  sinful,  my  dear, 
they  see  no  beauty  in  goodness.  The  Romish 
religion  was  Pagan,  you  know:  all  that  it  requir- 
ed of  its  votaries  was,  to  offer  certain  sacrifices 
and  observe  certain  festivals;  of  course,  there 
was  nothing  in  it  calculated  to  touch  the  heart 


156  THE    BEATITUDES. 

or  improve  the  character,  nothing  of  a  purify- 
ing or  saving  influence.  The  Jews,  who  in  the 
time  when  they  were  under  the  immediate  and 
almost  visible  guidance  of  God,  were  often  re- 
belious  and  idolatrous,  relapsed  more  and  more 
into  vice  after  they  had  ceased  to  be  a  nation, 
and  became  dispersed  throughout  the  heathen 
world.  The  Christians,  therefore,  suffered 
great  persecution  from  both  these;  spies  were 
constantly  employed,  and  those  who  were 
known,  or  even  suspected  to  have  become 
Christians,  were  often  condemned  to  the  most 
cruel  punishments.  The  Apostles,  many  of 
them,  suffered  violent  deaths,  though  the  Bible 
gives  us  no  account  of  them.  Peter  is  said  to 
have  been  crucified  with  his  head  downwards; 
and  Paul  is  supposed  to  have  been  beheaded. 
The  accused  were  often  put  to  dreadful  torture, 
for  the  purpose  of  inducing  them  to  renounce 
Christianity,  and  return  to  Paganism  or  Juda- 
ism: if  they  persisted  in  refusing  to  do  so,  they 
were  condemned;  some  to  be  burned  alive, 
others  to  be  thrown  to  wild  beasts  in  a  public 
show,  and  all  to  suffer  death  in  the  most  horri- 
ble modes  that  could  be  devised.' 


THE    BEATITUDES.  ]  57 

1  O,  pray  don't  tell  any  more  about  it,  mo- 
th er,  only  how  long  they  had  to  suffer  so,  and 
whether  any,  for  the  sake  of  getting  rid  of  such 
torture,  denied  the  Saviour,  like  Peter.' 

'Thny  were  never  safe  in  the  exercise  of  their 
religion  until  about  three  hundred  years  after  our 
Saviour's  birth,  when  the  emperor  Constantine 
became,  himself,  a  christian; — and  though  they 
did  not  suffer  at  all  times  equally,  yet  they  were 
continually  liable  to  pesecution.  The  instances 
however  were  comparatively  very  few,in  which 
the  sufferers  were  induced,  for  a  moment,  to  re- 
nounce their  new  religion,  and  sometimes,  when 
this  was  done,  under  the  influence  of  what  seem- 
ed insupportable  torture,  the  individual,  restored 
to  liberty, repented  of  his  weakness,  and  confess- 
1.ig  Jesus  again,  voluntarily  submitted  himself  to 
the  same  torture,  and  to  death.' 

'O,'  said  Mary,  'how  they  must  have  loved  to 
think  of  what  our  Saviour  said — Blessed  are 
they  that  are  persecuted  for  righteousness'  sake. 
Has  there  ever  been  any  persecution  since, 
mother?' 

cO  yes,  my  daughter;  ever  since  the  Chris- 
tians have  ceased  to  be  persecuted  by   others, 


158  THE    BEATITUDES. 

they  have  had  persecutions  among  themselves. 
Because  all  did  not  think  exactly  alike  on  reli- 
gion more  than  on  other  subjects;  they  have 
quarrelled  about  their  religious  opinions,  and 
the  stronger  party  has  persecuted  the  weaker  in 
all  ages  of  the  church.' 

'But  how  can  those  who  believe  in  Jesus  and 
profess  to  love  him,  quarrel  with  each  other.' 

'It  is  very  sad,  my  dear  Mary,  that  they 
should  do  so,  and  very,  very  wicked.' 

'Well,  is  there  any  persecution  now,  moth- 
er?' 

'There  is  none,  I  believe  of  the  kind  I  have 
been  speaking  of,  that  is,  bodily  torture  and 
death — except  in  Spain  and  her  dominions, 
where  there  is  a  tribunal  called  the  Inquisition, 
which  you  shall  read  an  account  of,  when  you 
are  old  enough.  There  are  many  other  modes 
of  persecution,  however,  which  you  are  too 
young  to  understand  at  present;  but  you  are 
quite  old  enough,  my  dear  Mary,  to  be  thank- 
ful that  you  live  in  a  time  when  every  person 
may  profess  his  belief  in  what  he  thinks  is  the 
truth,  without  endangering  his  life  or  fortune — 
and  all  may  worship  God   according  to    their 


THE  BEATITUDES.  159 

conscience.  If  you  had  lived  in  the  time  of 
our  Saviour,  or  in  the  first  two  or  three  cen- 
turies after  him,  and  had  been  taught  his  reli- 
gion and  tried  to  practise  it,  your. own  parents 
even,  if  they  had  not  been  Christians  too,  might 
have  thought  it  their  duty  to  give  you  up  to  be 
torn  of  wild  beasts.  Such  was  the  miserable 
ignorance  of  those  who  lived  in  that  period.' 

'Well,  I  am  sure  we  ought  to  be  very  good 
— when  it  is  so  easy  to  be  good — and  instead 
of  being  punished  for  it,  we  are  liked  better  by 
those  whom  we  really  wish  to  please. 

•'Yes,  my  dear,  we  are  without  excuse — for 
though  we  may  be  persecuted  it  is  not  in  a  way 
from  which  we  shrink  as  the  flesh  shrinks 
from  the  action  of  fire  or  the  touch  of  the 
knife.' 

'Mother,  do  you  suppose  that  a  little  child  is 
ever  persecuted  now?' 

'Yes,  my  dear,  little  children  are  persecuted 
for  righteousness'  sake,  whenever,  by  pursuing 
a  right  course  of  conduct  in  opposition  to  the 
feelings,  or  wishes,  or  habits  of  those  who  are 
less  scrupulous  than  themselves— they  incur 
their  ridicule,  contempt,  censure,  or  ill    will, 


160  THE    BEATITUDES. 

or  are  subjected  to  suffering  of  any  kind  what- 
ever. Have  you  never  seen  this  species  of 
persecution? 

'O  yes,  mother,  if  that  is  persecution,  I  have 
seen  a  good  deal  of  it:  there  are  always  those 
who  are  ready  to  ridicule  and  condemn  in 
others,  wiiat  they  do  not  like  to  practise  them- 
selves; though  sometimes,  I  think  it  is  because 
they   are    thoughtless,  rather  than    malicious.' 

' 1  dare  say  that  is  often  the  case,  my  dear, 
and  we  should  always  endeavor  to  interpret  the 
wrong  conduct  of  others  favorably  as  possible; 
but  still,  whatever  the  motive  of  such  conduct 
may  be,  its  effect  upon  us  is  equally  painful 
and  disagreeable.' 

'Yes,  indeed,'  said  Mary,  'there  is  nothing 
in  the  world,  except  the  displeasure  of  my 
friends,  that  I  am  so  afraid  of,  as  ridicule.' 

'That  is  very  natural,  my  dear,  and  there- 
fore you  will  have  the  greater  merit  whenever 
you  persevere,  in  spite  of  ridicule,  in  whatever 
you  think  is  your  duty.' 

'I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  more  apt  to  turn  aside 
than  to  persevere,  mother.  I  remember  that, 
last  summer,  when  our  wild  cousin  John   was 


THE    BEATITUDES.  16  t 

here,  he  happened  to  come  into  the  room  one 
day  when  George  and  ]  were  saying  our  pray- 
ers, and  he  mocked  us:  after  thnt  i  did  not  like 
to  have  him  know  when  we  said  our  prayers; 
but    it   made   me  kel  very  uncomfortable,   to 
think  that  I  was  ashamed  of  saying  my  prayers. 
He  was   cons'.antly  laughing  at    me,  too,    for 
being  as  he  called  it  i  in  leading  strings,'  be- 
cause I  would  never  go  away  with  him  or  enter 
into  any  of  his   schemes,  without   first    asking 
your  leave,  as  you  had  always  taught  me  to  do; 
and  1  was  so  afraid  of  his  ridicule — for  he  was 
more  tormeniing  in  this  wav  than  any  one  else 
that  I  have  ever    seen — that  I  used  frequently 
to  a>k  you   beforehmd  when  I  thought  he  was 
going  to  propose  anything  to  me,  what  1  should 
do,    so  that  I  might    appear   to  decide  for  my- 
self.    1  blamed  myself  that  I  had    not    more 
courage  in    doing  what  was  right,  being    con- 
stantly afraid  I  should   yield  to  him — and    so, 
at  last,  it  happened;    for,  one   Sunday,    when 
he  asked  me  just  to  take  a  little  walk  down  in 
the  meadow  by  the  river  with    him — a  request 
which  1  had  not  foreseen— I  consented  to  go, 
though  1  knew  I  ought  not,  without  consulting 


162  THE   BEATITUDES. 

yon,  and  that  it  was  almost  certain  you  would 
not  have  given  your  consent,  if  I  had  asked  it. 
There,  in  the  meadow,  we  idled  away  the  whole 
afternoon,  but  1  felt  very  uneasy,  and  did  not 
enjoy  it  at  all.  That  night  1  prayed  that  God 
would  forgive  me ;  and  then,  and  every  night 
afterwards,  while  he  stayed,  when  I  repeated,  in 
my  prayer,  the  petition  "  lead  me  not  into 
temptation,1'  I  thought  of  that  particular  tempt- 
ation. I  determined  too,  from  that  time,  that 
1  would  no  longer  be  ashamed  of  openly  asking 
your  leave,  when  I  wanted  it — and  found  that, 
much  as  I  dreaded  his  ridicule,  it  was  easier  to 
bear  it  than  it  was  to  endure  the  reproaches  of 
my  conscience.' 

(  You  find,  my  dear,  that  '  blessed  are  they 
who  are  persecuted  for  righteousness'  sake  f 
and  since  you  so  freely  confess  your  faults,  and 
are  so  ready  to  reproach  yourself,  I  am  disposed 
to  remind  you  for  your  future  encouragement, 
of  one  or  two  instances  in  which  your  sense  of 
duty  prevailed  over  your  fear  of  ridicule,  in  a 
manner  that  gratified  me  very  much.' 

4 1  shall  be  very  glad  if  you  will,  mother ; 
but  I  am  sure  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  what 
it  is  to  which  you  allude.' 


THE    BEATITUDES.  163 

*  You  know,  last  summer,  when  we  instituted 
our  little  Sunday  school  for  the  black  children, 
and  Were  anxious  that  you  and  a  few  of  your 
companions  should  go,  by  way  of  encouraging 
the  others,  and  setting  an  example  of  regular 
attendance  and  good  scholarship,  all  the  girls, 
but  you,  refused  ;  and  you  thought  you  could 
not  possibly  go  alone,  until  your  father  remind- 
ed you  that  it  was  your  duty  to  embrace  every 
opportunity  of  doing  good,  no  matter  how  small 
or  trifling  it  might  see; n  ;  so  you  determined  up- 
on it  at  once,  and  persevered,  in  spite  of  the 
laugh  of  all  the  girls,  and  the  titles  which  were 
bestowed  upon  you  of  Miss  Blackamoor,  and 
the  young  African  princess.' 

'Well,  mother,  I  was  never  sorry, 
though  it  was  very  disagreeable  at  first  ;  for  I 
really  believe  that  a  good  many  of  the  little 
black  children  learned  and  behaved  better  for 
my  being  with  them,  and  some  of  them  got 
quite  fond  of  me.' 

1  Nobody  is  ever  sorry  for  doing  what  is  right 
from  a  conscientious  motive.  The  beatitudes 
include  all  virtues,  you  know  ;  so  that  none  can 
go  unrewarded.     The  other  instance  I  was  go- 


164  THE    BEATITUDE?. 

ing  to  mention  of  your  perseverance  in  spite  of 
difficulties,  in  what  you  believed  to  be  right, 
occurred  at  the  time  of  your  4th  of  July  party, 
two  years  ago.  The  mother  of  one  of  the  little 
girls,  you  remember,  had  given  a  famous  great 
loaf  of  cake,  which  was  to  be  called  the  Wash- 
ington loaf,  and  which  the  managers  wished  to 
ornament  with  a  superb  bunch  of  artificial  flow- 
ers, to  be  purchased  by  subscription  among 
themselves.' 

'  O  yes,  1  remember  it  very  well,  mother, 
and  I  told  them  I  thought  it  would  be  a  foolish 
way  of  spending  our  money,  and  that  a  bunch 
of  flowers  from  the  garden  would  look  just  as 
well.  You  had  often  talked  to  me  about  its  be- 
ing wrong  for  those,  who  had  but  little  money 
to  give  away,  to  bestow  any  of  it  upon  trifles  ; 
and  I  was,  in  fact,  keeping  my  spending  money 
to  buy  some  comforts  for  old  Mrs  Warner — but 
I  did  not  like  to  tell  the  girls  so,  because  the 
scripture  says  w7e  must  not  let  our  left  hand 
know  what  our  right  hand  doeth.  So  some  of 
them  sneered,  and  said  I  was  so  close-fisted 
they  did  not  see  how  I  could  open  my  hand 
wide  enough  to  pick  even  a  flower  from  the 


THE    BEATITUDES.  165 

garden  ;  and  others  said,  that  one  might  be  ex- 
cused for  refusing  money  on  most  any  other 
occasion — but  on  the  4th  of  July—the  glorious 
4th  of  July — they  did  not  see  how  an  Ameri- 
can girl  could  have  the  heart  to  refuse  anything. 
I  thought  the  girls  were  unkind,  but  1  did  not 
know  that  their  conduct  towards  me  could  be 
called  persecution.' 

1  It  is  only  in  these  little  ways,  and  on  such 
trifling  occasions,  that  children  are  liable  to  be 
persecuted ;  and  it  is  only  in  these  small  ways 
tnat  the  habit  of  patiently  enduring  "  persecution 
for  righteousness'  sake"  can  be  acquired.  I  will 
tell  you  a  story  of  a  little  girl  I  knew  when  I  was 
a  young  lady,  that  bore  persecution  for  righteous- 
ness' sake,  as  I  thought  heroically.' 

'  O  do,  mother — and  what  will  you  call  it  ? — 
for,  as  I  have  told  you  before,  I  always  like  to 
have  a  name  to  a  story.' 

1  Well,  then,  it  shall  be  called  "  The  Story 
of  Julia  and  her  Strawberry  Bed."  ' 

'  This  little  Julia  was  a  sweat  child,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  friend  of  my  mother,  to  whom  I  was 
paying  a  visit  at  the  time  when  what  I  am  going 
to  tell  you  happened.     Julia's  mother  had  just 


166  THE    BEATIEUDES. 

then  taken  into  her  family  an  orphan  boy,  the 
son  of  a  distant  relative,  about  three  years  older 
than  Julia — a  spoiled,  thoughtless  child,  who 
had  always  been  permitted  to  do  pretty  much  as 
he  chose.  He  was  very  fond  of  what  he  called 
fun,  which  consisted  in  pulling  tricks  upon  peo- 
ple, and  then  laughing  at  the  mischief  they  oc- 
casioned. He  was  not  an  ill-natured  boy,  but 
as  I  said  before,  he  was  thoughtless,  and  had 
never  been  blessed  with  judicious  friends  who 
could  show  him  how  wrong  his  conduct  often 
was,  and  teach  him  that  he  ought  to  have  some 
regard  to  the  rights  and  interests  of  others,  as 
well  as  to  his  own  amusement.  He  teased  arid 
tormented  poor  little  Julia  unmercifully,  by  try- 
ing to  persuade  her  to  join  with  him  in  his  mis- 
chievous sports,  and  then  ridiculing  her  if  she 
would  not.  He  was  so  cheerful  and  pleasant, 
withal,  and,  as  Julia  said,  had  such  a  coaxing 
way  with  him,  that  it  sometimes  seemed  almost 
impossible  to  resist  him. 

One  day  they  were  in  the  garden  playing  to- 
gether, directly  under  my  chamber  window,  and 
T  overheard  him  say,  '  Now,  Julia,  I  have 
thought  of  some  capital  fun — and  it  will  not  da 
anybody  any  harm,  either.' 


THE   BEATITUDES.  167 

*  I  do  not  believe  that,  James,1  said  she,  '  but 
what  is  it  f  ' 

*  Why,  you  know  that  poor  lone  man  that  you 
and  I  call  the  hermit ;  he  has  a  strawberry  bed 
in  his  little  yard,  or  garden,  or  whatever  you  call 
it,  that  some  good  soul  planted  for  him  last  year, 
and  he  was  telling  me  last  night,  how  many 
strawberries  he  should  get  from  it  ;  and,  that 
though  he  was  too  blind  to  work  much  in  his  gar- 
den, he  thought  he  could  pick  the  fruit,  and  that 
would  be  pleasanter,  even  than  the  eating  of  it. 
Now,  I  was  thinking,'  said  James, 'that the  next 
time  you  and  I  went  to  walk  in  that  lot  close  by 
his  house,  we  would  manage  to  go  between  five 
and  six  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  old  man  goes 
every  day  to  the  school  house  for  the  master  to 
read  to  him.' 

'  O  now,  stop,'  said  Julia,  'you  need  not  teU 
me  any  more,  for  if  you  want  to  manage  to  be 
there  when  old  John  is  away,  I  know  you  are 
going  to  do  something  wrong.' 

'  O,  poh!  Julia,  now  do  just  hear  me  through, 
if  you  please,   and  then,   when  you  know  what 
my  scheme  is,  you  will  have  some  right  to  say 
whether  it  is  a  naughty  one;  but  not  till  then.' 
10 


168  THE    BEATITUDES. 

'  Well,  go  on,  but  I  know  I  shall  not  agree 
to  it.' 

c  O  yes  you  will,  Julia;,  all  I  want  of  you  is 
just  to  help  me  take-up  the  strawberry  plants 
and  put  some  dandelion  roots  in  the  place  of 
them;  he  is  too  blind  to  discover  the  trick,  and 
then  it  wilt  be  so  funny,  by  and  bye,  to  see  him 
poking  with  his  fingers  among  dandelion  roots 
for  strawberries.' 

'  O,'  said  Julia, c  how  can  you  propose  such 
a  cruel  thing,  James;  cruel,  and  not  very  honest, 
cither,  I  think.' 

'  Why,  as  to  the  cruelty,'  said  James,  we  are 
all  liable  to  disappointments,  and  old  John's 
will  be  no  greater  than  if  mere  should  happen 
to  be  a  drought  which  would  prevent  the  straw- 
berries from  ripening,  as  I  have  known  happen 
more  than  once  in  my  short  life — and  as  for  the 
dishonesty,  I  have  got  plenty  of  spending  money, 
and  I  will  engage  to  buy  him  twice  as  "many 
strawberries  as  his  bed  would  yield,  were  the 
season  ever  so  good — and  next  fall  I'll  plant 
another  for  him.  Have  not  I  said  enough  now, 
to  remove  all  your  scruples,  Julia?' 

{No,'  she  replied — '  the  golden  rule  is  the  sa- 


THE    BEATITUDES.  169 

fest  to  try  all  one's  actions  by.  4  Do  unto  oth- 
ers as  ye  would  they  should  do  unto  you.'  I 
would  sooner 'have  my  own  dear  little  strawberry 
bed  spoiled,  which  father  has  planted  for  me, 
than  that  poor  old  John's  should  be  destroyed.'' 
6  You  would,  would  you,'  said  James,  'we 
will  see  how  that  is — one  or  the  other  must  be 
clone  quick;  say  which  it  shall  be— will  you  go 
with  me  to  old  John's,  or  shall  I  try  my  hand  on 
yours  ?'  James  said  this,  not  doubting  that 
when  reduced  to  such  an  alternative,  Julia  would 
no  longer  hesitate  to  yield — but  when  he  found 
that  she  still  positively  refused,  though  almost 
trembling  for  the  fate  of  her  little  bed,  on  which 
she  placed  as  much  value  as  little  girls  are  apt 
to  place  on  the  things  that  please  them,  his  pride, 
of  which  he  had  a  good  deal,  would  not  suffer 
him  to  retract.  By  this  time,  too,  his  temper 
was  considerably  excited,  for  though  usually 
good-natured,  he  was  subject  to  sudden  parox- 
ysms of  passion,  under  the  influence  of  which,  he 
was  very  apt  to  do,  what,  a  few  moments  after 
he  would  be  very  sorry  for.  You  perceive  that 
I  speak  of  this  infirmity  as  1  would  of  a  disease, 
and  it  is  because  I  consider  it  in  that  light.  So 


170  THE    BEATITUDES. 

he  easily  caught  up  the  spade  and  proceeded  \o 
his  work  of  destruction. 

Mar)'  did  not  utter  a  word,  as  anything  she 
could  have  said  to  induce  James  to  forbear,  he 
would  have  interpreted  as  implying  that  she  had 
changed  her  mind;  and  was  willing  that,  of 
the  two,  old  John  should  be  the  sufferer  from 
the  present  determination  of  his  mind  to  mis- 
chief; but  the  tears  began  to  stream  from  her 
eyes,  when,  by  every  stroke  of  the  spade,  as 
many  fair  visions  were  dispelled  as  floated  in 
the  head  of  the  country  maid  with  her  milk-pail, 
just  before  the  milk,  which  was  to  lay  the  foun- 
dation of  her  fortunes,  was  all  spilled  upon  lhe 
ground. 

She  could  not  help  hoping  that  James  would 
throw  the  plants  in  the  alley,  sa  that  she  could 
replace  them  in  the  bed  again;  but  no!  by  this 
time  he  was  quite  too  much  excited  not  to  make 
his  work  of  destruction  thorough  as  possible^ 
and  he  did  not  cease  until  he  had  deposited  them 
on  a  heap  of  rubbish  which  was  burning  in  the 
yard. 

He  then  came  back  to  the  spot  where  Julia 
had  remained  standing  all  this  while,    h  is  face 


THE    BEATITUDES.  171 

red  with  the  exertion  he  had  been  making— 
1  Are  not  you  sorry,  now,  that  you  could  not 
be  a  little  more  obliging,  Julia?'  said  he. 

1 1  am  not  sorry  that  old  John's  bed  is  safe,' 
she  replied,  and  then  turned  and  left  him. 

He  was  disappointed  at  her  answer;  he  hop- 
ed, at  least,  to  find  her  very  angry,  if  not  sorry 
for  the  choice  she  had  made.  When  he  was 
left  alone,  and  had  time  to  recollect  himself  a 
little,  he  began  to  feel  very  much  ashamed  of  • 
his  conduct.  And  at  the  tea  table,  though  Mary 
was  very  sad,  you  would  have  said,  at  once,  that 
her  heart  was  more  at  ease  than  his.  Her  pa- 
rents were  both  absent  at  this  lime,  and  I  thought 
it  not  best  to  interfere  at  all  in  the  matter.  They 
had  just  before  set  out  on  a  journey,  to  be  ab- 
sent a  month.  Julia  and  James  had  very  little 
intercourse  for  some  time.  I  used  to  walk 
with  Julia,  and  she  almost  always  chose  to  go 
towards  old  John's,  for  the  sight  of  his  straw- 
berry bed  seemed  to  afford  her  great  pleasure. 

At  length  the  day  arrived  when  we  expected 
her  father  and  mother  home.  As  it  drew  to  a 
close,  the  hours  seemed  very  long,  and  the  chil- 
dren were  eager  and  impatient — so  I  proposed 


172  THE    BEATITUDES. 

that  we  should  have  the  tea-table  spread,  and 
see  how  beautiful  and  refreshing  we  could  make 
it  look  to  the  weary  travellers.  '  Come,  Julia,' 
said  I,  ■  you  must  bring  some  of  your  finest 
flowers  to  fill  a  tumbler  for  the  centre,  and 
George  must  produce  some  of  the  famous  rad- 
ishes and  peppergrass  that  he  boasts  of  having 
raised.'  The  tears  came  into  Julia's  eyes — 
*  O  dear,'  said  she,  '  what  a  beautiful  saucer  of 
strawberries  I  might  have  had  for  my  dear  fa- 
ther, but  for' She  stopped  short  ;  for  just 

then  James  came  into  the  room  ;  but  he  had 
heard  the  beginning  of  her  sentence,  and  soon 
alter  I  saw  him  stopping  a  little  girl  at  the  gate, 
and  buying  some  strawberries,  which  he  then 
brought  to  me  with  the  request  that  I  would  put 
them  on  the  table. 

At  length  the  carriage  made  its  appearance — 
we  all  ran  to  the  gate — and  in  one  minute  Julia 
was  in  her  father's  lap,  with  her  arms  around 
her  mother's  neck.  '  How  d'ye  do— how  d'ye 
do  ?  '  was  echoed  on  all  sides. 

'Well,  but  very,  very' tired,'  was  the  an- 
swer. 

«  Well,  mother,'  said    Julia,  i  tea    is  ready 


THE   BEATlTUD-ESv  175 

for  you' — and  directly  we  were  all  seated  around 
the  table,  a  joyous  group, 

'  Upon  my  word,'  said  her  father,  ;  I  have 
not  seen  such  a  beautiful  tea-table  since  I  went 
away — Jenny's  hot,  smoking  tea,  and  fine  white 
rolls — our  friend  Caroline's  elegant  sponge 
cake — Julia's  flowers — George's  radishes — and 
these  delicious  strawberries,  too — why,  Julia, 
your  bed  must  have  produced  beyond  your  ex- 
pectations.' 

Julia  had  not  observed  the  strawberries  till 
that  moment  ;  her  lips  trembled,  and  she  could 
hardly  command  her  voice  to  say,  c  These  did 
not  come  from  my  bed,  father.' 

Her  father  perceived  that  something  troubled 
her  ;  but,  unwilling  to  mar  the  pleasures  of  the 
tea-table— the  social  pleasures,  I  mean — he 
asked  no  explanation,  and  proceeded  to  talk  of 
something  else.  After  tea,  however,  he  invited 
her  to  walk  in  the  garden  with  him,  and  then 
drew  from  her  the  whole  story  of  her  wrongs. 
'  But  do  not,  father,  say  anything  to  James,'  ad- 
ded she,  '  for  I  know  he  has  been  sorry  enough 
about  it — and  it  was  he,  I  suppose,  that  pro- 
cured the  strawberries  for  the  tea-table.' 


174  THE    BEATITUDES. 

c  Well,  my  daughter,'  said  her  father,  look- 
ing very  much  pleased,  '  I  hope  you  have  nev- 
er been  sorry  for  your  decision.' 

1  O  no,  father ;  I  have  taken  more  pleasure  in 
seeing  old  John's  strawberries  than  I  should 
from  his  and  mine  both,  if  this  had  nothappen- 
ed  ;  only  I  did  feel  very  bad  this  afternoon,  that 
I  had  not  any  for  you. 

'  Well,  my  darling,  this  story  has  been  better 
to  me  than  all  the  strawberries  in  the  world  ; 
such  a  good  little  daughter  is  enough  to  make  a 
man  happy  and  rich,  if  he  were  poor  in  every- 
thing else.' 

You  may  think  how  pleased  Julia  was  with 
her  father's  praise;  she  came  in,  looking  bright 
as  a  sunbeam,  and  her  face  glowing  with  what 
has  been  called  '  the  color  of  virtue,'  for  a  mod- 
est little  girl  cannot  be  praised  even  by  her  fa- 
ther, without  blushing  a  li  tie. 

James  all  this  while,  looked  rather  uneasy, 
as  if  in  constant  expectation  of  a  disclosure, 
that  would  bring  upon  him  disgrace  and  re- 
proof. Nothing  was  said  to  him  however,  and 
his  was  too  generous  a  nature,  not  to  be  affect- 
ed by  so  much  goodness  and  forbearance  on 
the  part  of  Julia. 


THE   BEATITUDES.  175 

One  morning,  in  the  month  of  August,  Julia's 
father  observed  him  reading  a  book,  so  rare  a 
thing,  that  he  said  to  him  '  what  have  you  there, 
James  ?  it  is  a  strange  sight  to  see  you  with 
book  in  hand.' 

'  It  is  one  of  your  books  on  gardening,  sir,' 
said  he,  '  and  I  assure  you  I  am  very  much  in- 
terested in  it.' 

Soon  after  this,  James  asked,  one  night,  if  he 
could  have  old  Rover  to  ride  a  few  miles  be- 
fore breakfast  the  next  morning. 

1  Ride  before  breakfast !  you  who  are  never 
out  of  your  bed  until  we  have  all  done  break- 
fast ;  what  new  character  are  you  going  to  take 
next,  James  ? ' 

'  Let  me  have  the  horse,  sir,  and  I  will  show 
you,'  said  James  laughing.  The  permission 
was  granted,  and  when  the  family  were  at 
breakfast,  inquiry  being  made  for  James  some 
one  said  he  rode  away  at  four  o'clock ;  it  was 
now  eight.  Soon  after  this  he  came  running  in. 

'  Now,  Julia,  will  you  lake  a  walk  in  the  gar- 
den with  me?'  said  he  looking  very  significantly. 

Julia  went,  her  father  followed,  and  lo  and 
LI 


176  THE    BEATITUDES. 

behold  1  they  found  the  strawberry  bed  all  set 
with  fine  plants  again. 

'  And  is  this  your  doing,  James  ?  You  have 
anticipated  me  ;  I  was  thinking  of  doing  it  my- 
self, soon,  but  I  was  at  a  loss  where  to  get  the 
plants.' 

*  Farmer  Smith  told  me  that  he  would  sell 
me  some,'  said  James  ; '  I  happened  to  ask  him 
the  other  day  when  he  was  in  the  village,  be- 
cause I  knew  he  had  a  good  many  ;  so  I  rode 
there  this  morning  to  gel  them.  I  have  spent 
the  last  two  hours  in  setting  them  ;  and  now,  I 
hope,  Julia  will  forget  all  about  her  old  bed.' 

c  That  I  shall,'  said  Julia,  '  and  like  this  even 
better  than  that.' 

After  this,  they  were  great  friends  ;  James 
left  off  his  mischievous  sports,  and  became  a 
delightful  companion  for  Julia  ;  but  his  favorite 
amusement,  of  all  others,  was,  weeding  and 
hoeing  the  strawberry  bed. 

So  you  see  Julia  was  blessed  for  having  suf- 
fered persecution,  in  several  ways  ;  the  appro- 
bation of  her  own  conscience,  the  happiness  she 
gave  her  father,  and  the  effect  of  her  example 
upon  James.' 


MARY    JONES 


LITTLE  GIRL  WHO  LEARNED  TO  BE 


ALWAYS  HAPPY  AND  ALWAYS  GOOD, 


FROM  THE  THOUGHT 


GOD  WAS  NEAR  HER. 


MARY  JONES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Mary  Jones  was  about  eight  years  old,  and 
had  learned  to  read  very  well,  so  that  she  could 
understand  all  the  little  books  that  had  been  put 
into  her  hands.  She  was  obedient  to  her  pa- 
rents; and  had  been  taught  by  them  to  be  kind 
and  good  humored  to  all  with  whom  she  lived; 
to  treat  her  brother  and  sister,  who  were  young- 
er than  herself,  with  constant  kindness;  to  be 
patient  when  they  disturbed  her  in  her  work  or 
her  play;  obliging  when  they  needed  her  care 
and  attention;  and  forgiving  when  they  were 
not  so  kind  to  her  as  she  had  been  to  them. 
For  they  were  younger  than  she  was;  and 
though  their  mother  was  careful  to  watch  over 
their  conduct,  and  meant  to  make  them  amiable 
and  good  like  Mary,  she  always  told  her  she 
must  set  them  the  example;  for  with  a  bad  ex- 


180  MARY   JONES. 

ample  from  her,  they  could  not  be  taught  to  be 
good. 

Mary  had  learned  too,how  to  sew  very  neatly, 
and  always  had  her  task  at  her  needle  to  perform 
at  school  or  at  home  every  forenoon  and  after- 
noon; and  she  took  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  in 
saying  that  since  she  was  five  years  old,  her  fa- 
ther had  never  had  a  pocket  handkererchief  or 
cravat  hemmed  except  by  herself.  He  too  was 
pleased  that  she  loved  to  work  for  him;  and 
promised  her  that  when  she  should  be  ten  years 
old,  she  should  make  his  shirts. 

Mary  was  a  thoughtful  little  girl;  and  what 
she  had  been  taught  by  her  excellent  mother, 
of  God  and  his  works,  made  her  often  reflect 
about  him.  But  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  see 
how  so  great  a  being  as  God,  who  made  the 
world,  and  the  heavens,  the  sun,  and  the  moon, 
and  the  stars — should  take  care  of  Aer;  and  she 
was  still  more  surprised  to  think  that  all  her  ac- 
tions^should  be  noticed  by  him.  Her  mother 
had  often  told  her  it  was  the  case;  and  she  knew 
she  was  in  the  habit  of  asking  in  her  evening 
prayer  for  His  protection  while  she  slept,  and 
again  praying  for  His  care  through  the  day,  in 


MABT   JONES.  181 

the  morning.  But  Mary  never  thought  of  God 
as  looking  on  her  actions  and  observing  all  she 
did,  without  feeling  a  little  unhappy,  and  wish- 
ing within  her  own  mind,  that  God  would  not 
notice  her  so.  For  though  Mary  was  as  good 
a  little  girl  as  any  other,  and  a  great  deal  better 
than  some,  she  knew  that  she  seldom  thought 
of  pleasing  God  in  what  she  did;  and  she  fear- 
ed that  she  often  offended  him.  And  when  she 
thought  of  his  seeing  her  always  in  her  play, 
she  could  not  help  feeling  sorry  that  He  saw 
her,  for  she  thought  that,  to  so  very  high  and 
great  a  Being,  it  must  seem  like  a  very  idle  and 
foolish  thing. 

As  soon  as  Mary's  mother  found  that  she  bad 
these  feelings,  and  that  the  thought  of  God  was 
not  always  pleasant  to  her,  she  took  great  pains 
to  show  her  little  girl  that  God  though  he  was 
very  great,  was  also  very  kind,  and  she  told 
Mary,  that  she  must  learn  to  consider  him  as 
her  Father.  Mary  said  'I  know  he  is  my  Fa- 
ther in  Heaven;  but  that  makes  him  a  great  way 
off.'  Her  mother  said,  cIf  you  will  do  every 
day  as  I  can  direct  you,  my  dear  Mary,  I  think 
1  can  soon  teach  you  how  you  will  feel  very 


182  MARY   JONES. 

happy  in  the  thought  of  God.  And  you  will 
think  of  him  with  the  same  pleasure  at  all  times, 
whether  you  are  at  work,  or  at  play, — alone,  or 
in  company.  And  you  will  find,  too,  that  he  is 
very  near,  and  not  a  great  way  off.' 

c  What  is  it  that  you  would  have  me  do,  mo- 
ther ?     I  will  try  to  do  as  you  teach  me.' 

'  Well,  my  dear,  you  may  begin  tomorrow 
morning;'  (for  she  was  talking  with  Mary  in  her 
chamber,  after  she  had  gone  to  bed  and  said 
her  prayers.)  '  Tomorrow  morning  you  must 
begin  to  take  particular  notice,  in  your  own 
mind,  of  everything  that  happens  to  you.  And 
then  try  to  think  if  there  is  not  some  kind 
Being,  whom  you  do  not  see,  near,  to  keep  you 
from  danger.' 

Mary  was  surprised  that  this  was  all  her  mo- 
ther wished  her  to  do;  and  she  said,  '  Why, 
mother,  1  am  a  little  girl,  and  father  and  you 
take  care  of  me;  and  what  can  happen  to  me 
worth  thinking  of?  I  go  to  school,  and  come 
home  again;  and  nothing  ever  happens  to  me..' 

c  How  can  you  say,  my  dear,  that  nothing 
ever  happens  to  you,  when  you  know  that  you 
hardly  ever  come  home  from  school,  without 


MARY   JONES.  1S3 

having  something  to  tell  me,  that  you  think 
quite  important,  either  what  happens  to  you,  or 
to  some  of  your  companions.  And  it  was  on- 
ly yesterday  that  you  told  me  of  your  swing — 
how  it  broke  down  just  at  the  instant  little  Su- 
san Gray  got  seated  in  it.  And  you  yourself 
remarked,  how  happy  it  was,  that  it  did  not 
w^ait  till  she  had  begun  to  swing  ;  for  then  she 
must  have  been  sadly  hurt — and  as  it  was  she 
was  not  hurt  at  all.' 

'  Well,  mother,'  said  Mary,  '  now  I  think  of 
it,  it  does  seem  as  if  some  kind  and  good  Being 
was  near,  that  we  could  not  see;  or  else  why 
should  it  have  come  down  just  then — and  no 
sooner,  or  latter  ?  for  if  it  had  broken  a  minute 
sooner,  cousin  Ann  would  have  been  terribly 
hurt;  for  she  got  out  of  it  just  as  Susan  took 
it.  And  she  swung  very  high — so  that  we 
were  frightened  and  begged  her  to  stop.  It 
was  strange  that  it  broke  at  that  very  moment, 
was  it  not,  mother  ?J 

'  It  would  be  strange  indeed,' said  her  moth- 
er, '  if  no  kind  and  affectionate  Being  were 
near  to  overrule  everything.  Now  I  think  my 
Mary  must   see   that  the  thought  of  God  can 


184  MARY   JONES. 

never  be  unpleasant  to  herf  any  more  when  she 
is  at  play,  than  at  other  times;  for  she  needs 
his  care  at  all  times.  And  when  little  girls 
observe  our  Saviour's  directions,  to  be  kindly 
affectionate  to  one  another;  they  need  not  be 
sorry  to  think,  that  their  heavenly  Father  sees 
them  in  their  amusements,  any  more  than  at 
any  other  time.' 

Mary  saw  that  her  mother  was  going  to  leave 
the  chamber,  for  she  had  slayed  longer  than 
usual,  and  thought  she  had  said  enough  to  her 
for  that  evening;  but  when  she  went  to  kiss 
her,  and  bid  her  good  night,  Mary  said,  c  I  'in- 
sure I  shall  love  to  think  of  God  now;  and  I 
shall  try  to  think  of  him  tomorrow  a  great 
many  times.' 

'  Do  so,  my  dear,'  said  her  mother,  '  and 
when  I  come  to  see  you,  after  you  have  gone 
to  bed,  you  must  remember  and  tell  me  all  you 
have  thought  of  God  during  the  day.  But  you 
need  not  say  anything  about  it  to  any  one  else. 
Keep  your  thoughts  carefully  in  your  own 
mind,  and  tell  them  to  me  alone.'  Then  her 
mother  left  her,  and  little  Mary  was  soon 
asleep. 


p.  183. 


MARF   JONES.  185 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  hymn  which  Mary  always  said  the  first 
thing  after  she  awoke  in  the  morning,  was  the 
following. 

Father — to  Thee  my  praise  I  pay, 
Thy  kind  and  gentle  power 
Is  near  to  guard  me  all  the  day, 
And  in  the  midnight  hour. 

I  trusted  in  thy  gracious  care 
When  slumber  closed  my  eyes, 
And  now  to  thee  my  morning  prayer 
Of  thankfulness  fehall  rise. 

Teach  me  to  raise  my  thoughts  above, 
And  then  in  every  hour 
My  heart  shall  love  thee  for  thy  love, 
And  fear  thee  for  thy  power. 

Thy  never-failing  care  bestow 
Till  all  my  days  are  past, 
May  peace  be  with  me  here  below, 
And  heaven  be  mine  at  last. 


186  MARY    JONES. 

While  she  was  repeating  it  to  herself  the  next 
morning,  she  could  not  help  thinking  of  all  that 
had  passed  between  her  mother  and  herself  the 
evening  before,  and  she  said  the  hymn  over  a 
second  time,  and  wondered  that  she  had  never 
thought  more  of  the  kind  care  which  kept  her 
from  all  harm  during  the  night  when  everybody 
was  fast  asleep,  and  even  her  father  and  mother 
needed  protection  as  much  as  she  did.  As 
she  went  on,  the  swing  came  into  her  mind 
again,  and  when  she  said  the  last  verse,  she 
thought  that  she  certainly  should  not  forget 
again,  that  God  was  near  her,  and  took  care 
of  her. 

She  got  up  full  of  the  thought  of  watching 
everything  that  happened  through  the  day. 
But  her  mother  had  told  her  not  to  talk  about 
the  thing  to  any  one  but  herself  or  her  father; 
and  so  she  said  nothing  about  it  to  any  of  the 
family.  After  having  eaten  her  breakfast  and 
gone  of  an  errand  or  two  for  her  mother,  she 
took  her  little  sister  Fanny  in  her  hand,  and 
set  off  for  school. 

Fanny  was  a  clever  little  girl  of  four  years 
old;  and  this  was  the  first  summer  that  she  had 
gone  to  school;  so  that  Mary  had  to  take  a  good 


MARY   JONES.  167 

deal  of  care  of  her.  And  as  they  had  to  go 
by  the  bank  of  a  river,  Mrs  Jones  used  to 
charge  Mary  not  to  let  go  of  Fanny's  hand, 
lest  she  should  play  by  the  bank  and  fall  in. 
Mary  always  thought  of  it  as  she  passed  that 
place ;  for  she  loved  her  little  good  natured 
sister;  and  would  have  been  greatly  grieved, 
to  see  her  hurt  in  any  way.  But  as  she  was 
going  to  school,  this  morning  I  speak  of,  she 
saw  a  gentleman  and  lady  coming  towards 
them  in  a  beautiful  chaise,  and  a  little  girl  about 
Fanny's  age  sitting  between  them  on  the  seat. 
This  little  girl  looked  at  them,  and  pointed  to 
Fanny,  and  then  said  something  to  her  parents 
which  Mary  could  not  hear;  but  she  thought 
that  her  pretty  little  sister  was  the  object  of  the 
little  girPs  apparent  delight.  Mary  in  her  turn 
was  gazing  at  her,  and  wondering  who  they 
could  be,  that  seemed  so  happy.  The  chaise 
passed  them,  and  just  at  that  instant  she  felt 
Fanny's  hand  pulling  very  hard  on  her  own; 
and  on  looking  round  found  she  was  falling 
over  the  bank;  which  she  had  quite  forgotten 
h  ile  looking  at  the  gentleman  and  lady  and 
ittle  girl.     She  had   fallen  .so  far  that  Mary 


MART   JONES. 


could  not  save  her,  but  she  caught  hold  of  her 
gown,  and  soon  reached  over,  and  by  kneeling 
down  was  able  to  put  her  arm  round  Fanny's 
waist,  and  by  pulling  very  hard  got  her  back 
just  as  her  bonnet  touched  the  water. 

They  were  both  dreadfully  frightened,  and 
after  Mary  had  set  her  little  sister  on  a  great 
stone  which  lay  near,  she  too  began  to  cry. 
Just  then  their  father,  who  had  been  walking 
that  way  and  was  returning  home,  came  up; 
and  seeing  the  children  in  trouble,  he  asked 
them  what  was  the  matter.  He  saw  something 
had  happened,  and  taking  little  Fanny  on  his 
knee,  he  sat  down  on  the  stone  himself.  The  n 
he  took  Mary  by  the  hand  and  said,  'what  has 
happened  my  daughter?  Come,  clear  up  and 
tell  me  all  about  it.' 

Mary  told  her  father  as  well  as  she  could, 
how  Fanny  had  almost  fallen  into  the  river. 
1  But,'  said  her  father,  '  she  did  not  quite  fall  in- 
to the  river;  and  why  should  you  cry  ?' 

1  But  I  am  afraid  she  is  hurt,'  said  Mary. 

Fanny  still  cried  a  little;  but  her  father  wiped 
her  eyes  and  said — '  Let  us  see,  my  little  Fanny, 
are  you  hurt  ?     Tell  us  where.' 


BfART   JONES.  189 

Fanny  was  Dot  hurt,  but  frightened,  and  by 
this  time  it  was  about  over.  So  she  said,  *  I 
do  not  know  where' — but  looking  down  she  saw 
her  gown  was  lorn  uadly,  and  she  said  '  O  my 
gown!'  'Butyoui  gown  does  not  cry,'  said 
her  father — Here  the  children  laughed;  and 
their  father,  wiping  both  their  faces  with  his- 
handkerchief,  asked  how  this  accident  happened. 

Mary  told  him  exsctlyhow  it  happened;  and 
said  she  was  sure  she  should  never  again  be  so 
careless  of  her  little  sister's  safety.  Mr  Jones 
then  looked  at  the  place  where  Fanny  had  fallen; 
and  told  her  sister  she  had  great  cause  to  be 
thankful  that  it  was  here  find  not  further  back; 
f  for  see,'  continued  he,  c  the  bank  is  not  steep 
here;  but  had  she  fallen  there,  your  strength 
could  not  have  been  sufficient  to  pull  her  back. 
And  besides,  you  have  to  thank  this  friendly 
stick  which  caught  in  her  gown;  for  that  wTas 
what  held  her  back,  till  you  got  your  arm 
round  her  waist.  So,  my  dear  little  Fanny, 
your  toirn  gown  has  saved  your  head,  and  after 
ill  there  is  much  more  cause  to  be  glad  than 
sorry,  a  i  it  has  turned  out,  so  trot  away  to  school 


1D0  MARY   JONES* 

as  fast  as  your  feet  can  carry  you,  and  think  of 
the  river  when  you  come  this  way  again.' 

On  they  went  to  school  quite  light-hearted,  for 
their  father  had  cheered  them  by  his  kindness; 
and  though  Mary  felt  unhappy  whenever  she 
thought  that  her  want  of  care  might  have  occa- 
sioned great  distress  had  Fanny  been  hurt,  yet 
she  was  delighted  to  think  how  sure  she  now 
was  of  what  her  mother  hacf  told  her  the  evening 
before — that  she  was  always  in  the  care  of  her 
heavenly  Father. 

She  attended  to  her  usual  lessons  at  school, 
and  tried  to  give  her  mind  to  her  work  and  her 
reading;  but  she  often  caught  herself  thinking 
over  the  accident  of  the  morning  and  as  often  as 
she  thought  of  it,  she  felt  as  if  she  could  never 
think  of  God  again  without  pleasure;  since  it  was 
He  that  had  been  near  when  she  could  not  see 
him,  and  had  saved  her  from  such  great  afflic- 
tion as  she  should  have  had  if  little  Fanny  had 
fallen  in  a  more  dangerous  place,  or  if  the  stick 
liad  not  kept  her  from  the  water  till  she  could 
save  her.  And  when  she  looked  at  the  dear 
little  girl  while  she  sat  on  her  bench  and  seemed 


MARY   J  ONES.  191 

so  happy,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  joy  as 
she  thought  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  heav- 
enly Friend,  Fanny  might  have  been  on  a  bed  of 
pain  at  that  moment  instead  of  smiling  there  so 
pleasantly. 


12 


192  MARY    JONES. 


CHAPTER  III. 

At  noon,  when  the  children  returned  from 
school,  Fanny  ran  to  her  mother  to  show  the 
great  rent  in  her  gown  and  to  tell  her  of  her  fall. 
Mary  was  impatient  too  to  let  her  mother  know 
the  worst  of  her  fault;  and  began  telling  her  that 
she  never  should  be  so  careless  again — but  Mrs 
Jones  stopped  her,  saying,  '  I've  heard  it  all 
from  your  father,  my  dear  children.  I  hope 
you  are  both  happy  that  it  was  no  worse;  but  I 
cannot  stay  to  talk  of  it  now,  for  I  have  compa- 
ny in  the  parlor  to  dine.  Mary,  you  may  change 
your  sister's  gown  and  then  come  in/ 

Mary  had  no  opportunity  to  talk  with  her  mo- 
ther of  the  accident  of  the  morning  until  after 
she  hud  gone  to  bed,  which  was  the  time  that 
Mrs  Jones  preferred;  Sor  then  all  was  so  quiet 
and  peaceful  that  she  thought  Mary  would  be 
more  apt  to  attend  to  her  instructions  than  at  any 
other  time.  And  whenever  the  wished  to  im- 
press her  mind  with  very  important  and  serious 


MARY   JONES.  193 

thoughts  she  chose  that  hour.  So  that  it  seldom 
happened  that  Mary  and  her  mother  had  not 
some  conversation  together  after  she  had  said 
her  evening  prayers. 

The  evening  I  am  speaking  of,  she  waited  im- 
patiently for  her  mother,  for  she  longed  to  talk 
with  her  about  Fanny's  fall.  Mrs  Jones  soon 
gave  her  the  opportunity;  for  she  too  felt  impa- 
tient to  hear  what  Mary  had  thought  of  it.  And 
as  soon  as  she  had  put  Charles  and  Fanny  to 
hed  and  heard  them  say  their  prayers,  she  came 
to  Mary,  and  sitting  down  by  the  bedside  she 
said—'  Well,  my  dear  Mary,  this  has  been  the 
first  day  that  you  ever  tried  to  keep  in  mind  the 
thought  that  your  heavenly  Father  was  near  you. 
Now  tell  me  has  it  made  you  happy  or  unhappy?' 

'  O,  it  has  made  me  happy,  mother,  very 
happy  !  for  only  think  of  dear  little  Fanny's  fall- 
ing into  the  river  !  Did  fa;her  tell  you  all  about 
it  ?  how  if  she  had  fallen  in  another  place  I  could 
not  have  saved  her — and  about  the  stick  that 
caught  her  gown,  and  so  kept  her  back  till  i  got 
my  arm  round  her  waist  ?  Was  not  it  strange, 
mother,  that  it  should  all  have  happened  so 
nicely  ? — That  when  she   came  so   near  being 


194  MARY   JONES. 

dreadfully  hurt,  and  perhaps  drowned — she 
was  not  hurt  at  all !  ' 

'  You  do  not  think  it  "  strange,"  my  dear, 
when  your  father  or  1  do  kind  things  for  you — 
do  you?  Why  then  should  it  seem  strange  to 
you  that  your  heavenly  Father  should  be  kind 
to  you  ? ' 

'  I  do  not  know,  mother — but  when  I  think 
that  a  Being  whom  I  cannot  see,  takes  such 
particular  care  of  us,  it  does  seem  strange.' 

'  I  know,'  said  her  mother,  *  it  is  not  easy  for 
us  to  realize  that  any  one  sees  us  whom  we  can- 
not see.  But  I  think  that  you,  my  dear  Mary, 
will  not  watch  all  that  happens  to  you  many 
days,  without  being  sure  that  it  is  the  case.  But 
there  is  one  part  of  His  kind  care  of  you  this 
morning,  that  I  see  you  have  not  thought  of,  my 
dear  child.' 

*  And  what  is  that,  mamma  ?  for  T  have  been 
thinking  all  day  about  His  kindness,  and  what 
have  1  forgotten  ? ' 

*  Why,'  said  her  mother,  do  not  you  think 
you  had  more  strength  than  common  when  you 
pulled  her  back  ?  And  being  greatly  frightened 
as  you.  were,  do  not  you  think  it  strange  that 


MARY    JONES. 


195 


you  should  have  known  in  the  instant  exactly 
how  to  save  her  ?  ' 

'Yes  indeed,  mother,  so  it  is  strange — for 
when  I  had  got  her  back,  I  felt  so  weak,  and 
my  hand  trembled,  and  1  was  so  frightened,  that 
J  could  hardly  untie  her  bonnet.' 

'  And  how  do  you  think  you  came  by  such 
uncommon  strength,  and  such  presence  of  mind 
-at  the  very  moment  when  your  sister's  life  de- 
pended on  your  saving  her  ? ' 

1  Mother,'  said  Mary,  '  it  must  have  been, 
that  God  was  near  and  gave  me  the  help  of  his 
great  power  ! ' 

*  Yes  indeed,  my  child,  that  was  the  friend 
who  is  always  near  you,  and  who,  the  Bible 
says,  never  forsakes  ;those  who  put  iheir  trust  in 
him.  And  it  is  beautifully  said,  in  the  Psalms, 
of  our  blessed  Saviour,  that  "  God  would  give 
■his  angels  charge  concerning  him,  lest  at  any 
time  he  should  dash  his  foot  against  a  stone." 
And  we  may  not  doubt  that  he  will  take  the 
same  care  of  us,  if  we  follow  our  Saviour  in  the 
delightful  confidence  which  lie  always  felt  in  his 
Father's  care  and  love.  I  have  already  stayed 
too  Jong,  my  daughter,  sp  good  night.  Remeu> 


J  96  MART    JONES. 

ber  this  is  the  first  day  of  your  notice  of  the 
presence  of  God.  Tomorrow  you  may  not  have 
any  great  danger  to  pass  through — but  I  dare 
say  you  will  find  enough  of  kindness  to  make 
you  sensible  that  God  is  your  best  friend.' 

Mary  had  already  begun  to  feel  sensible  that 
God  was  her  best  friend,  and  she  never  gave 
herself  to  his  heavenly  protection  with  half  the 
pleasure  that  she  felt  that  night. 


MARY    JONES.  197 


CHAPTER  I\T. 


!  shall  not  follow  my  little  Mary  through  ev- 
ery day  of  her  new  life,  or  rather  study,  I  may 
call  it  ;  for  that  would  take  more  of  my  time 
than  I  can  spare,  and  make  a  longer  story  than 
I  intend.  It  will  be  enough  if  I  show  her  pro- 
gress and  success  from  time  to  time,  until  she 
became  quite  happy  in  thinking  of  God  at  all 
times  ;  and  found  it  easy  to  recollect  him  often 
every  day.  Especially  when  she  had  any  par- 
ticular pleasure,  she  could  see  how  it  came  from 
Him  ;  when  she  was  in  any  danger,  she  could 
turn  to  Him  as  the  friend  who  would  he'p  her  ; 
or  when  any  alarm  distressed  he-",  she  could  re- 
call His  presence  in  a  moment ;  and  that  gave 
her  confidence.  If  she  was  alone,  she  often 
found  the  thought  of  God  a  comfort ;  and  she 
had  so  much  pleasure  in  dwelling  on  his  various 
kindness  to  her,  and  to  others  that  she  loved., 
that  it  was  like  a  new  and  agreeable  study  to 
her  mind — every  day  it  became  more  easy  ami 
delightful.     And  her  mother,  .delighted  at  ihg 


198  MARY   JONES. 

interest  she  showed  in  it,  and  her  happy  pro- 
gress, never  failed  to  visit  her  at  night  and  en- 
courage her  to  go  on. 

I  cannot  forbear  to  relate  one  little  incident 
that  occurred  one  evening,  though  I  should 
make  my  story  too  long  if  1  were  to  mention 
every  one  which  interested  Mary  in  her  new 
pursuits.  Fanny  did  not  sleep  with  Mary;  she 
had  been  taken  care  of  from  her  infancy  by  an 
excellent  girl,  and  whenever  Mary  invited  her 
to  come  and  sleep  with  her  she  used  to  say 
'  No,  Mary,  I  rather  sleep  with  Betsey' — so 
Mary  slept  in  a  trundle-bed  in  her  mother's 
chamber.  It  happened  one  evening  that  some 
one  was  sick  down  stairs,  and  Betsey  was  at- 
tending to  them  till  quite  late  at  night.  Mrs 
Jones  too  was  engaged  in  the  same  way  ;  and 
while  they  were  all  in  another  part  of  the  house, 
Mary  heard  Fanny  cry  and  call,  as  if  she  was 
frightened.  She  listened,  thinking  some  one 
would  come  up — but  no  one  came.  What 
should  she  do  ? — she  could  not  hear  her  cry  so 
— she  might  step  across  the  entry  to  her  herself, 
and  take  her  into  her  bed.  But  Mary  was  one 
of  the  most  timid  little  girls  in  the  world,,  and 


MARY    JONES.  199 

above  all  things  she  dreaded  to  take  a  step  in 
the  dark.  Still  she  could  not  bear  to  hear  Fan- 
ny's sobs  —she  jumped  up  and  went  to  the  door, 
but  before  she  stepped  one  foot  forward  she 
drew  back,  for  something  stood  close  by  Fan- 
ny's door  —it  was  not  light  enough  for  her  to 
see  what  it  was.  '  1  cannot  go  !  O  how  I  wish 
that  Betsey  or  mother  would  come  up.  What 
shall  I  do?'  she  exclaimed.  Just  then  the 
thought  of  her  Heavenly  Father  came  across 
her  mind—'  He  will  not  let  anything  hurt  me,' 
she  said  to  herself—'  and  going  as  I  am  to 
comfort  my  poor  little  sister,  too;  I  wonder  I 
was  so  long  in  thinking  of  Him.  Whatever  it 
is,  it  cannot  have  any  power  to  harm  me,  while 
God  is  near  me.'  By  this  time  she  was  near 
the  thing  that  alarmed  her,  but  she  slipped  into 
the  chamber  without  looking  at  it;  finding,  how- 
ever, that  she  had  passed  it  without  any  danger, 
she  felt  new  courage,  and  thought  that  she 
would  find  out  what  it  was  when  she  went  back. 
Poor  little  Fanny  had  waked,  and  finding  her- 
self alone  was  frightened;  and  as  Betsey  did 
not  come  when  she  called,  she  thought  she  had 
gone  away  and  left  her.  Mary  found  her  with 
12* 


200  MARY   JONES. 

her  head  under  the  sheet,  her  face  and  hair  all 
wet  with  tears  and  perspiration — '  Come,  Fan- 
ny dear,'  said  Mary,  '  come  and  get  into  my 
bed ;  Betsey  is  taking  care  of  James  down 
stairs,  and  is  not  ready  to  come  to  bed  yet.' 
The  little  creature  was  delighted  beyond  meas- 
ure to  feel  her  sister's  face  close  to  hers — '  O, 
I  should  admire  to  go  and  sleep  in  your  bed, 
Mary — will  you  lead  me?' 

'  Yes,  darling-,  come  along  with  sister.'    Mary 
was  now  very  glad  that  she  did  rot  give  way  to 
her  foolish  fears!     'How  silly  it  was  to  be  afraid,' 
said  she  to  herself,  as  she  passed  along,  I  when 
I  know  that  God  always  protects  me.    And  now 
I  dare  say  that  is  something  that  has  been  stand- 
ing there  all  day  which  frightened  me  so.     But 
I  will  look  as  1    go  back' — She  did  look — and 
in  a  second  it  all  came  into  her  mind— Her  mo- 
ther's bonnet  and  shawl  hanging  over   a  chair, 
just  where  she  heiself  had  put  them  that  very 
afternoon,  when  sent  to  carry   them   to   their 
proper  place !     '  Well,'  said  she,  as   she  got 
into  bed  with  little  Fanny  by  her  side,  '  mother 
will  say  1  have  been  weil    paid  for  leaving  her 
things  where  they  ought  not  to  be.     But  1  re- 


MARY   JONES.  201 

ally  intended  to  put  them  away  as  soon  as  I  had 
looked  the  little  book  through  which  I  had  in 
ray  hand.  I  shall  remember  it,  I  know,  and  I 
shall  not  do  such  a  thing  again,  for  I  was  fright- 
ened. But  I  do  not  believe  1  can  be  so  weak 
again  as  to  be  afraid  to  go  and  do>  what  is  right, 
when  I  know  that  the  great  Lord  of  Heaven 
and  earth  is  in  every  place,  beholding  the  evil 
and  the  good,  as  my  mother  told  me  last  night. 
And  I  hope  I  shall  always  remember  that  when 
He  is  pleased  with  what  i  do  He  will  give  me 
strength  and  courage  to  perform  it.' 


202  MARY   JONES. 


CHAPTER  V. 

One  Saturday  morning,  while  they  were  at 
breakfast,  Charles  told  his  mother  that  he  had 
really  been  an  uncommonly  good  boy  at  school 
all  the  week,  and  he  expected  to  bring  the  me- 
dal at  noon  for  being  the  best  boy  in  school. 

c  Then  you  think  you  shall  bring  home  the 
medal,  do  you,  Charles  ?'  said  his  father — - 
■  well,  I  hope  you  will,  my  son.  And  in  that 
case  1  shall  invite  you  to  take  a  ride  with  me 
this  afternoon.  I  am  going  to  the  pasture  to 
take  some  salt  to  the  cattle  and  sheep.  And 
you  may  ask  your  sisters  to  join  us.' 

'That  will  be  charming,  Charles,  wont  it?' 
exclaimed  Mary  and  Fanny,  as  he  told  them  of 
their  father's  intention. 

Charles  brought  home  the  medal,  as  he  was 
sure  he  should,  and  they  were  all  delighted,  for 
they  had  not  been  in  a  chaise,  as  Mary  said, 
since  last  Summer, — and  now  the  trees  were  all 
in  blossom,  and  everything  looked  so  beautiful! 


MARY   JONES.  203 

Mr  Jones  had  a  pleasant  farm  where  he  lived, 
in  Exeter.  The  house  was  situated  at  some 
distance  from  the  road  on  a  rising  piece  of  ground 
in  the  midst  of  his  orchard;  and  a  pleasant  lane 
led  to  it  from  the  road.  It  was  half  a  mile 
from  the  town  by  the  road,  but  he  had  made  a 
path  across  his  fields,  which  made  the  distance 
much  shorter.  And  the  school  which  his  chil- 
dren attended  was  between  his  house  and  the 
village — so  that  they  had  a  pleasant  walk  to 
school,  and  came  into  the  road  just  by  the  river 
which  we  have  mentioned  before.  The  village 
was  in  plain  sight  from  Mr  Jones's  house,  and 
formed  one  of  the  most  beautiful  prospects  to 
be  seen.  For  there  were  many  fine  trees  scat- 
tered through  it,  and  two  pretty  spires  rising 
just  above  them  from  the  churches  in  the  place. 
Then  the  white  houses  that  were  placed  among 
them  and  looked  so  neatly,  gave  the  idea  of 
quietness  and  plenty  to  all  the  scene.  Mr  Jones's 
place  too,  was  a  lovely  spot,  and  looked  sweet- 
ly from  the  village.  The  house  stood  in  the 
midst  of  the  apple  trees — it  had  a  pretty  piazza 
in  front,  and  was  painted  white,  with  green 
blinds.     His  small  farm  was  left  him  by  his  fa- 


204  MARY    JONES. 

ther,  and  he  took  great  pains  to  improve  it,  and 
keep  it  in  order,  though  his  business  was  in  the 
village,  and  he  spent  most  of  his  time  there. 
He  seldom  had  leisure  to  indulge  his  children, 
by  taking  them  to  ride,  and  when  he  did  give 
them  the  opportunity  they  were  very  happy  in- 
deed. And  they  talked  of  little  else  from  din- 
ner until  three  o'clock,  which  was  the  time 
their  father  fixed  for  them  to  be  ready.  When 
he  drove  up  to  the  door  at  that  time  he  found 
them  all  waiting,  so  he  sat  Mary  and  Charles 
on  the  seat  by  him,  and  took  Fanny  on  his  knee, 
as  he  said,  to  help  father  drive,  which  she  thought 
she  did  by  holding  the  end  of  the  reins  and  call- 
ing to  the  horses  to  '  get  up.' 

It  was  now  the  pleasant  season  of  the  year: 
the  fields  looked  beautiful  and  the  trees  were 
in  blossom.  They  saw  several  small  houses  at 
a  distance  in  the  fields  where  the  children  were 
playing  before  the  doors  and  enjoying  their  Sat- 
urday afternoon.  They  saw  cattle  and  lambs 
feeding  on  the  hills,  which  were  covered  with 
green  grass  and  clover.  The  smoke  that  rose 
from  the  cottages  in  the  valley  lifted  up  its  flee- 
cy curls  above  the  trees,  while  not   a  breath  of 


MARY   JONES.  205 

air  disturbed  its  rising  till  it  gently  lost  itself  on 
high.  Everything  was  calm  and  peaceful,  and 
the  children's  joy  was,  without  their  knowing  it, 
increased  by  the  universal  gladness  which  seem- 
ed to  breathe  in  every  thing  around  them.  Mary 
was  more  silent  than  Charles  and  Fanny;  for 
the  thought  of  God  once  becoming  familiar  to 
her  mind,  as  a  friend,  and  one  to  whom  she 
might  become  attached  as  to  a  parent,  she  was 
seldom  long  without  thinking  of  him.  To  her, 
every  spot  she  looked  upon  seemed  alive  with 
happiness,  as  it  did  to  the  other  children;  but 
the  thought  that  God  formed  it  was  also  present 
to  her  mind;  till  pleased  with  tracing  His  hand  in 
all  the  beauty  and  joy  around  her,  she  felt  His 
presence  everywhere.  He  seemed  to  keep  the 
children  from  danger  while  they  frolicked  about 
fearing  no  harm.  He  made  the  cattle  enjoy  the 
green  pasture  and  clear  brook.  The  birds  which 
sung  in  the  branches,  and  flew  in  rapid  sweep 
from  place  to  place,  seemed  to  raise  their  songs 
to  Him  who  tuned  their  notes  to  happiness. 

So  delightful  were  these  new  thoughts  to  Ma- 
ry's heart  that  she  could  not  bear  to  give  them 
up  when  they  were   interrupted,  and  she  did 


206  MART   JONES. 

not  speak  till  she  had  breathed  a  siient  but  sin- 
cere and  earnest  prayer  that  she  might  in  future 
think  of  God  oftener,  and  learn  to  know  him  bet- 
ter, and  love  him  more  than  she  had  ever  done 
before. 

Charles  and  Fanny  chattered  so  fast  during 
the  ride,  that  Mary's  silence  was  not  noticed. 
Indeed  her  father  had  as  much  as  he  could  at- 
tend to,  in  answering  their  questions,  and  in  lis- 
tening to  their  talk,  which  amused  him  very 
much.  When  they  came  to  the  pasture  he  took 
them  all  out  of  the  chaise,  and  tied  the  horse  to 
the  fence,  while  the  children  crawled  under  the 
fence,  and  were  among  the  pretty  white  sheep 
and  lambs.  Fanny  kept  a  close  hold  on  Mary's 
hand  while  they  were  in  the  midst  of  the  sheep, 
for  she  could  not  help  being  a  little  afraid;  but 
when  she  saw  them  lick  the  salt  off  from  Charles's 
hand,  she  began  to  take  courage;  and  she  laugh, 
ed  heartily,  when  Charles,  to  show  how  brave 
he  was,  pot  his  arm  round  the  neck  of  a  pretty 
large  lamb,  which,  in  trying  to  get  away  from 
him,  pulled  him  over,  and  they  both  rolled  on 
the  ground  together. 

Mr  Jones  staid  long  enough  to  give  the  chil- 


MARY    JONES. 


207 


dren  a  pleasant  walk,  where  they  found  some 
pretty  flowers  to  carry  to  their  mother,  and  then 
returned,  having  given  them  all  the  delight  that 
their  little  hearts  could  desire. 

Tea  was  on  the  table  when  they  got  home; 
and  Charles  and  Fanny  were  for  once  glad  to 
go  to  bed.  Mary  sat  up  longer.  She  found  a 
visitor  had  arrived  while  they  were  gone;  a 
cousin  of  hers,  about  her  own  age,  who  had 
come  with  her  mother  to  spend  a  week  or  two 
with  them.  But  I  shall  leave  Susan  Ray  to  be 
introduced  to  my  readers  by  and  by,  while  I 
follow  Mrs  Jones  to  Mary's  chamber,  after  she 
had  gone  to  bed. 

1  Now  mother  I  'm  glad  to  see  you — for  I 
was  just  trying  to  think  over  the  pleasant  thoughts 
I  had  this  afternoon,  and  I  longed  to  tell  you 
what  a  sweet  ride  we  did  have.' 

'  i  came  on  purpose  to  hear  about  it,  Mary — 
what  made  it  so  very  delightful  ?  you  have  been 
to  the  pasture  a  great  many  times  before,  but 
never  came  home  witli  a  countenance  so  very 
cheerful  and  happy.' 

'  Indeed,  mother,  it  was  the  very  happiest 
ride  1  ever  had  in  my  life,  and  can't  you  guess 
the  reason  ?' 


208  MART    JONES. 

*  Had  not  you  better  tell  me  ?  Perhaps  1 
should  not  guess  right  if  I  should  try.1 

f  O,  mother,  you  know  you  could  not  guess 
wrong— for  what  h;is  made  me  enjoy  every- 
thing more,  lately,  than  1  used  to  do? 

1  You  told  ine  last  night,  that  you  did  not 
look  at  the  simplest  flower  now,  without  feel- 
ing more  pleasure  in  it,  than  you  used  to  have 
in  looking  at  a  rose,  because  .you  always 
thought  of  the  band  that  made  it;  and  it  seemed 
so  loving  and  kind  in  God  to  scatter  such 
beauties  all  over  the  earth.' 

'  That  was  just  the  reason,  mother — I  knew 
you  could  tell.  I  enjoyed  the  ride  for  thinking 
of  God.  Everything  1  saw  made  me  think 
how  good  He  is !  And  I  could  not  help 
wishing  that  the  children  who  were  playing  so 
happily,  the  little  birds,  and  everything,  could 
only  know  what  a  kind  Being  was  taking  care 
ofthem.' 

'  He  has  given  that  privilege  to  none  of  his 
creatures  but  ourselves,  my  dear  child;  for  he 
has  made  none  but  man  in  his  own  image, 
and  capable  of  knowing  him.  Then  do  not 
you  think  ^ve  ought  to  try  very  hard  to  know 
and  love  him  ?' 


MARY    JONES.  209 

*  Yesj  mother,  and  1  mean  to.  I  have  trierl, 
mother,  all  this  month— and  I  never  could 
believe  it  would  be  so  pleasant  and  so  easy  to 
think  of  God.' 

4 1  suspect  the  reason  you  i  bought  it  could 
not  be  pleasant,  my  dear,  was  that  you  seldom 
thodght  of  Him  except  when  you  did  not  do 
right.  And  as  for  iis  being  easy — 1  am  not 
surprised  that  you  wonder  at  that— for  it  would 
not  be  easy  for  us  to  think  of  that  which  we 
can  never  see,  or  hear,  or  know,  except  by 
reflection.  But  God  himself  has  made -it  easy 
in  a  way  that  shows  his  love  for  us  more  than 
anything  else.' 

1  How  is  it  r'  said  JMary. 

f  He  condescends  to  help  us  in  all  our  efforts 
to  know  and  to  love  him,  by  his  own  Spirit.' 

'  But,  mother,'  said  Mary,  '  1  do  not  know 
whnt  you  mean.' 

'  Perhaps  I  can  make  you  understand — You 
have  no  doubt  that  God  is  near  you,  though 
yon  Ho  not  see  him  ?' 

1  No,    mother.'  - 

8  Well,  you  have  no  doubt  that  God  knows 
your  thoughts  ?' 

1  No,  mother.' 


210  MARY    JONES. 

1  If  God  is  near  you  without  your  seeing  him. 
and  knows  your  thoughts  without  your  telling 
him— should  not  you  think  he  might  commu- 
nicate his  thoughts  to  your  mind  without  his 
speaking  to  you,  or  your  hearing  him  ?; 

c  Yes,  mother,  I  suppose  he  could,  but  I  did 
not  know  that  he  did  so.' 

'  My  dear,  the  eye  is  not  necessary  to  see 
him,  nor  the  ear  to  hear  him;  yet  he  is  near 
our  path  to  protect  our  steps,  and  his  spirit  is 
about  our  hearts  to  teach  us  what  is  good  and 
pleasant  in  his  sight.  We  are  also  told  in  the 
Bible  that  there  is  nothing  on  which  he  looks 
with  so  much  pleasure,  as  a  child  who  gives 
its  young  mind  to  the  knowledge  and  love  of 
Him.  Then,  my  dear,  is  it  strange  that  he 
should  make  such  a  study  easy  by  his  own 
teaching  ?  especially  when  he  regards  them  with 
the  earnest  love  of  a  parent  ?' 

c  But  why,'  said  Mary, '  should  he  take  more 
pleasure  in  seeing  a  child  love  Him  than  any- 
other  person  ?' 

1  Because,  my  dear,  the  sooner  a  person  be- 
gins to  love  him,  the  more  and  better  they  will 
love  him;  and  the  fewer  years  they  will  waste — 
gnd  the  younger  a  person  is,  the  more  innocent 


Mary  joncs.  211 

is  their  heart*  If  you  wish  to  give  a  flower  to  a 
person  whom  you  loved,  would  you  not  rather 
choose  one  that  had  just  opened,  and  was  fresh 
and  sweet,  than  one  which  had  been  defaced 
and  soiled  by  hanging  on  the  bush  ?  Just  so 
it  is  with  offering  the  heart  to  God.  The  earli- 
er it  is  given,  the  less  it  is  defaced  and  soiled 
by  the  world.  You  know,  my  dear,  that  Dr 
Watts  says, 

£  A  flower  when  offered  in  the  bud, 
Is  no  vain  sacrifice.' 

And  she  bid  Mary  good  night,  praying  that 
her  own  young  heart  would  open  under  the  in- 
fluences of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness. 


212 


MARY    JONES* 


CHAPTER  VI. 


The  next  clay  was  the  Sabbath,  and  it  was 
always  a  sweet  day  at  Mr  Jones's.  All  was 
quiet  and  peaceful  within  doors,  and  everything 
abroad  looked  fresh  and  new. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  birds  of  the  air  and  the 
beasts  of  the  field  knawr  that  it  was  God's  holy 
day.  One  seemed  to  sing  a  happier  song,  and 
sat  long  upon  the  branches  without  fear  oi  being 
driven  from  their  sweet  abode  by  the  approach 
of  man— the  other  lay  beneath  the  trees,  or 
stood  by  the  cool  brook,  glad  to  rest  from  the 
labors  oi  the.  busy  ueek. 

After  the  children  were  dressed  for  meeting, 
and  each  had  said  a  hymn  to  their  mother  to 
remind  them  that  the  day  was  one  in  which  no 
unkind  word  must  be  spoken,  and  all  their 
actions  must  be  peace  and  love,  they  were  al- 
lowed to  walk  in  the  orchard  near  the  house 
until  meeting  time. 

While  they  were  walking  to  church,  Mrs 
Jones  told  Ulary  that  she  hoped  she  would  at- 
tend to  what  Mr  Robinson  said,  for  she  had 
no  doubt  there    would    be  many   things-  in  the 


MARY    JONES.  213 

service  that  would  instruct  and  please  her  if  she 
would  but  listen  for  them.  Mary's  manners 
at  church  that  day,  proved  to  her  mother  that 
she  was  not  unmindful  of  her  hint-— for  she  ob- 
served with  pleasure,  that  Mary  was  attentive 
to  what  was  said.  The  singing  always  pleased 
her,  but  when  the  hymn  beginning  '  Lord  of 
the  Sabbath'  was  sung  with  animation  and 
sweetness,  Mary's  heait  did  really  join  in  the 
service,  and  she  was  surprised  to  find  how  much 
more  delightful  it  was  when  she  tried  to  raise 
her  heart  and  thoughts  to  her  heavenly  Father 
in  the  language  of  that  beautiful  hymn  and  by 
tiie  sweet  tune  that  expressed  it,  than  when  she 
merely  listened  to  the  words  and  the  music  as 
she  was  in  the  habit  of  doing.  When  she  rose 
in  prayer  time  she  did  not  lose  the  feeling  that 
the  hymn  had  awakened,  and  though  she  did 
not  understand  all  that  was  said,  she  felt  that 
it  was  addressed  to  God,  j^.nd  she  would  not 
offend  his  holy  presence  by  giving  her  attention 
to  any  other  object. 

But  the  chapter  from  Scripture  which  Mr 
Robinson  read,  the  14th  of  St  Joins,  attracted 
her  whole  mind,  for  it  was  one  where  our  Sa- 


214  MARY   JONES. 

viour  spoke  of  leaving  the  disciples;  and  his 
tenderness  and  affection  seemed  very  affecting 
to  her.  But  when  he  spoke  of  the  spirit  of 
truth  which  God  would  send  them  after  he 
should  be  taken  away — she  thought  of  what  her 
mother  had  said  to  her  about  God's  spirit,  and 
she  longed  to  ask  her  more  about  it.  She  lis- 
tened to  the  sermon  and  was  soon  interested  in 
the  affecting  picture  which  Mr  Robinson  pre- 
sented to  his  hearers,  of  the  separation  of  our 
Saviour  from  his  followers,  and  their  forlorn 
condition  when  he  was  gone  from  them.  When 
he  ended,  Mary  was  surprised  to  find  how  quick 
the  time  of  service  had  passed;  and  when  her 
mother  told  her  it  was  as  long  as  usual,  she 
could  hardly  believe  it  possible;  but  she  was 
glad  she  had  learned  the  secret  of  making  meet- 
ing lime  seem  short. 

As  soon  as  she  had  a  chance  she  told  her 
mother  she  wished  she  would  tell  her  some- 
thing more  about  the  Spirit,  and  asked  her 
to  explain  what  was  said  about  it  at  church 
that  morning. 

*  It  is  a  very  simple  story,  my  dear,'  said 
her  mother,  A  kit  one  which  you  will  think  of 


MARY    JONES.  2\o 

with  more  and  more  comfort  and  delight  as  you 
are  called  to  act  in  life. 

'  Our  blessed  Saviour  came  into  the  world 
to  teach  mankind  the  true  character  of  our 
heavenly  Father,  and  how  they  should  please 
him.  While  he  was  with  his  disciples,  he  was 
very  earnest  to  make  them  understand  what 
God  was,  and  what  were  their  duties  toward 
him.  When  he  was  about  to  leave  them  they 
were  very  sorrowful,  for  they  knew  that  when 
he  was  gone  there  would  be  no  one  to  teach 
them  of  heavenly  truih.  But  he  told  them  that 
it  was  better  for  them  to  part  with  him,  for  then 
God  would  communicate  with  them  by  his  own 
Spirit,  and  that  he  would  teach  them  all  things 
concerning  himself  and  their  duties,  that  it  was 
necessary  for  them  to  know.  This  was  the 
messenger  who  was  to  keep  the  knowledge  of 
God  in  die  hearts  of  men  after  our  Saviour,  who 
had  brought  it,  should  have  returned  to  heaven. 
And  this  Spirit  is  near  to  the  hearts  of  men, 
as  God's  presence  is  near  to  all  the  works  which 
he  has  made;  so  that  we  are  aided  by  this 
heavenly  friend  m  all  our  meditations  on'  Godt 
and  in  all  our  eflbEts  to  please  him,  though  it 
13 


216  MARY   JONES. 

is  in  a  way  that  we  do  not  perceive — IndeeoV 
my  dear,  I  cannot  better  explain  it  than  by 
saying  that  it  is  a  thought  of  our  heavenly  Father 
meeting  with  our  thought.' 

c  I  understand  this,  mother.  And  it  is  a 
pleasant  thing  when  one  wants  to  be  good  and 
to  do  right,  that  there  is  such  a  power  to  help 
ihem.' 

Mary  was  quite  satisfied  and  pleased  with 
her  mother's  explanation,  and  it  ended  the  in- 
struction of  that  Sabbath.  Where  is  the  little 
girl  that  would  not  like  to  pass  that  day  in  the 
same  manner  ? 


MARY   JONES.  317 


CHAPTER  VII. 

I  have  promised  to  introduce  to  my  young 
friends  the  little  girl  who  had  come  to  make 
Mary  a  visit;  and  I  hope  their  patience  has  not 
given  way  while  1  have  kept  them  wailing. 
Susan  Ray  was  about  Mary's  age,  and  her 
cousin.  But  she  was  an  only  child:  her  father 
died  when  she  was  young,  and  she  was  more 
dear  to  her  mother  than  all  the  world  beside; 
so  that  she  was  an  indulged,  and  what  is  called 
a  spoiled  child.  She  did  not  live  with  other 
children,  and  of  course  had  never  learned  to 
give  up  her  own  inclinations  to  others,  so  that 
when  she  was  with  them  they  had  to  give  up 
to  her  to  keep  peace,  and  she  was  never  pleased 
if  they  did  not  do  everything  to  amuse  her, 
while  she  never  thought  of  giving  them  any 
pleasure  in  return. 

At  breakfast  on  Monday  morning,  Mrs  Ray 
said  to  Mrs  Jones,  'you  must  not  think  of  keep- 
ing your  children  at  home  from  school  on  Susan's 


218  MARY   JONES. 

account,  for  they  will  have  time  enough  to  play 
after  school  hours,  and  1  shall  attend  to  her 
reading  and  work  at  home.'  Mrs  Jones 
thought  it  would  be  pleasanter  to  her  sister  to 
have  the  noise  of  the  children  out  of  the  way, 
and  so  it  was  agreed  that  they  should  go  to 
school  as  usual. 

They  hurried  home  when  the  time  came,  and 
found  Susan  in  the  garden,  playing  wiih  Charles, 
who  had  returned  from  his  school  earlier  than 
Mary  and  Fanny.  He  ran  to  meet  them,  as 
he  saw  them  coming — '  Well,  Mary,  1  am  glad 
vou  have  come  at  last,  for  I  have  shown  Susan 
all  my  things,  and  she  is  quite  tired  of  play- 
ing with  me.  See,  she  is  coming  with  my  new 
cup  and  ball*,  but  1  can  catch  it  twice  as  well 
as  she  after  all.  though  she  is  two  years  older 
than  I.' 

1  That  is  only  because  you  play  with  it  a 
great  deal  more  than  she  does,  and  are  used  to 
it,'  said  Mary. 

Susan  now  came  up;  '  Here,'  said  she  to 
Charles,  '  take  your  cup  and  ball — I  am  sure  I 
never  wish  to  touch  it  again — it  is  an  ugly 
thing  !' 


MARY   JONES.  219 

Poor  Charles,  whose  cup  and  ball  had  been 
given  him  for  being  a  good  boy  at  school,  was 
sadly  grieved,  to  hear  his  cousin  call  it  an 
'  ugly  thing,'  and  with  a  face  just  ready  to  cry, 
he  turned  to  Mary — '  it  is  not  an  ugly  thing,  is 
it,  Mary  ?' 

Susan  was  really  not  an  ill  tempered  child, 
but  was  so  thoughtless  of  others,  and  so  bent 
on  enjoying  her  own  humors,  that  she  never 
took  any  care  to  save  them  from  unhappiness, 
or  give  them  pleasure — but  when  she  saw 
Charles's  trouble,  she  said,  c  Well,  well,  Char- 
lie, I  did  not  mean  to  say  it  was  really  ugly — 
It  is  pretty  enough  I  suppose.'  Charles  was 
satisfied  once  more,  and  they  all  played  peacea- 
bly enough  till  dinner  time. 

Mary  considered  Susan  as  company,  and  felt 
bound  to  try  to  make  her  enjoy  herself,  so  that 
she  did  not  hesitate  to  comply  with  her  wishes, 
even  when  they  were  disagreeable  to  herself,  as 
was  often  the  case.  Mrs  Jones  soon  saw  that 
it  must  be  so,  and  urged  Mary  to  have  no  dis- 
putes with  Susan,  but  to  give  up  to  her  on  all 
occasions,  unless  she  should  wish  her  to  do 
something   wrong.     Mary's  greatest  difficulty 


220  MART   JONES. 

was  not  in  giving  up  to  her,  herself,  but  Susan 
claimed  the  same  from  Charles  and  Fanny,  and 
it  was  not  so  easy  to  make  them  polite  ;  so  it 
took  all  her  care,  to  save  them  from  quarrels. 
She  was  daily  obliged  to  promise  Charles  some- 
thing which  she  knew  her  mother  would  give 
him,  and  tell  Fanny  she  would  make  something, 
pretty  for  her,  or  take  her  to  walk,  or  please 
her  in  some  way  or  other,  if  they  would  but  give 
up  to  Susan,  and  let  her  have  her  own  way, 
and  not  ask  for  their  play-things,  when  she  had 
them.  And  it  did  really  seem  as  if  Susan's 
chief  pleasure  in  these  things  was  in  teasing  the 
children,  for  the  moment  they  were  willing  to 
yield,  she  cared  no  more  about  them. 

Susan  lived  in  Portland  when  she  w7as  at 
home,  where  she  found  a  great  many  things  to 
amuse  her,  and  whenever  she  was  tired  of  one, 
she  flew  to  another.  If  she  found  it  dull  at 
home,  she  would  go  to  her  grandfather's  ;  and 
there  her  uncles  and  aunts  were  always  ready 
to  please  her  after  her  own  fancy.  If  she  wish- 
ed to  ride  or  walk — play  battledoor  or  check- 
ers— or  anything  else,  some  one  of  them  was 
ready  to  join  her?  so  that  after  the  first  few  days 


MARY   JOf.ES.  221 

at  her  aunfs,  she  was  tired  of  everything.  Poor 
Mary  then  began  to  stay  at  home  from  .school, 
and  she  had  a  hard  task  to  try  to  make  Susan 
happy — and  after  all,  she  said  to  her  mother,  it 
did  no  good,  for  Susan  would  not  be  pleased 
with  anything. 

'  Do  not  say  it  does  no  good,  Mary — J  assure 
you  it  may  be  very  useful  to  you,  if  it  is  not  to 
Susan.' 

'  I  am  sure  I  do  not  see  how,'  said  Mary, 
c  for  it  only  frets  me  ;  and  if  she  would  be 
pleased  and  happy,  how  much  we  might  enjoy 
ourselves,  and  now  neither  of  us  enjoy  our- 
selves.' 

*  Still,'  said  her  mother, l  it  may  do  you  more 
good,  than  if  you  did  enjoy  yourself.' 

'  Now,  mother,  do  tell  me  how  that  can  be, 
for  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean.' 

'  It  teaches  you  how  to  be  disinterested.' 

*  I  do  not  know  exactly  what  that  is.' 

'  It  is  preferring  the  gratification  of  others  to 
our  own.  And  besides,  my  dear  Mary,  con- 
sider what  would  be  the  case  now,  if  you  should 
not  give  up.' 

'  Why,  mother,  we  should  quarrel.' 


222  MARY    JONES. 

1  And  how  would  that  make  you  feel  ? ' 

'  Very  unhappy,  mother.' 

1  Well,  then  it  is  not  such  a  losing  bargain 
after  all,  is  it?  You  save  yourself  the  misery  of 
quarrels,  and  learn  a  lesson  on  real  disinterest- 
edness. It  is  easy  to  practise  this  virtue  to 
those,  who  will,  in  their  turn,  show  it  to  us  ; 
but  when  we  can  treat  those  in  the  same  way, 
who  are  selfish  and  will  not  return  it,  we  can  be 
sure  that  the  virtue  is  real,  and  such  as  God 
will  approve.  Our  Saviour  tells  us,  that  we 
must  not  confine  our  kind  actions  to  those  who 
will  return  them,  for  there  is  no  virtue  in  loving 
those  who  love  us;  wicked  people  will  do  that.7 

Mary  went  away  quite  satisfied  with  herself, 
and  renewed  her  efforts  to  find  amusement  for 
her  cousin.  She  thought  she  succeeded  rather 
better  than  she  had  done  before  ;  and  when  she 
went  to  bed  she  told  her  mother  so,  and  asked 
her  '  if  she  supposed  Susan  knew  how  much 
trouble  she  gave  others  to  please  her  ? ' 

4  It  is  not  likely  she  ever  thinks  of  it,'  she 
replied. 

'  How  strange.'  said  Mary, '  I  should  think  it 


MAKY    JONES.  223 

would  make  her  quite  unhappy  to  think  that  God 
saw  it.' 

4  Indeed  it  would,  my  dear,  and  I  doubt  not 
that  she  would  cure  herself  of  this  selfishness  if 
she  remembered  the  presence  of  Him  who  loves 
io  see  all  his  creatures  happy,' 


13* 


224  MARY   JONES. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  next  day  Mary  set  herself  to  her  usual 
business,  for  business  it  had  become,  of  finding 
Susan  some  new  pleasure.  She  asked  her  mo- 
ther if  she  could  not  send  them  with  some  mes- 
sage to  somebody,  just   to  give  them  a  walk. 

'  O  yes — the  ve  y  thing,'  said  her  kind  mo- 
ther, '  I  wish  to  send  a  basket  of  nice  things  to 
old  Mrs  Turner,  and  if  you  would  like  you  may 
go  and  carry  it.'  Tney  had  a  pleasant  walk,  for 
the  old  lady  lived  a  mile  from  Mrs  Jones's  ; 
most  of  the  way  was  shady,  and  it  was  a  sweet 
morning. 

They  found  her  itting  by  the  window  of  her 
little  abode,  knitting,  while  her  daughter  who 
lived  with  and  took  care  of  her,  was  busy  about 
her  housework.  c  Well,'  said  the  old  lady,  after 
looking  into  the  basket,  and  handing  it  to  her 
daughter,  c  It  is  very  good  of  your  mother,  my 
child,  to  send  me  these  things.' 

c  And  they  have  come  just  at  the  right  time,' 


MARY    JONES.  225 

said  her  daughter  Betsey,  as  she  took  them 
out  ;  '  for  mother's  appetite  has  been  but  poor- 
ly for  several  days,  and  I  was  telling  her  this 
morning  that  a  little  bacon  would  be  mighty 
good  for  her.' 

c  And  cannot  you  have  such  things  always 
when  you  want  ihem  ? '  said  Mary. 

'  Generally,  my  child  ;  I  do  not  want  long  for 
anything  I  need,  my  friends  are  all  so  good  to 
me.  The  Lord  deals  very  kindly  with  me,  and 
I  may  say  never  forsakes  me.  He  puts  it  in  the 
hearts  of  those  who  have  more  than  they  need 
to  remember  my  necessities,  and  I  am  never 
left,  as  I  may  say,  to  w7ant.' 

'Not  to  real  want,  to  be  sure,'  said  Betsey, 
who  would  sometimes  complain,  '  but  we  are 
in  straights,  many  is  the  time,  and  I  often  worry 
to  think  what  may  come  next.' 

'  I  know  you  do,  Betsey,  but  when  you  are 
carried  comfortably  through  your  days,  as  you 
have  been  thus  far,  you  will  look  back  and 
wonder  that  you  could  ever  distrust  the  Shep- 
herd of  Israel.  He  has  ever  blessed  our  bask- 
et and  our  store,  and  caused  us  to  dwell  in  safe- 
ty when  seemingly  there  was  none  to  help  us. 


22<J  MARY   JONES. 

And  if  you  had  seen  the  times  that  I  have.  Bet* 
sey,  you  would  know  that  there  are  worse 
straights  than  any  we  meet  with.  I  have  seen 
the  day  when  I  no  more  knew  what  it  was  to 
want  for  food  and  raiment,  than  do  these  child- 
ren now.  I  had  enough  and  to  spare,  and  yet 
my  spirit  was  sick  within  me.  I  waited  for  the 
morning  with  troubled  thoughts,  and  for  the 
evening  with  watchful  and  anxious  suspense. 
But  God  has  brought  me  out  of  these  and  ma- 
ny other  troubles,  and  made  ray  old  age  com- 
fortable and  happy  by  his  continual  care  and 
presence.' 

Here  Susan  looked  around  the  room  and 
again  at  the  old  lady,  and  wondered  what  it  was 
that  made  her  more  unhappy  than  her  present 
poverty  :  and  she  ventured  to  ask  her  if  she  was 
sick  and  expected  to  die,  that  made  her  so  un- 
happy. 

1  O  no,  my  child — 1  thought  I  should  be  glad 
to  die.  It  was  the  sinful  course  of  my  only 
son;  he  gave  me  a  heavy  heart  for  many  years, 
but  repented  at  last,  and  I  had  comfort  in  him 
before  he  died,  poor  soul !' 

Encouraged  by  the  old  lady's  telling  them  so 


MARY    JONES.  227 

much,  their  next  desire  was  to  know  how  she 
became  so  poor,  and  they  asked  her  if  she  had 
always  lived  in  that  house. 

'  O  no,'  said  the  kind  old  lady,  '  my  husband 
was  well-to-do  in  the  world,  and  had  a  profit- 
able trade,  and  my  father  left  me,  who  was  his 
only  child,  a  nice  place  when  he  died,  where 
we  lived  in  very  comfortable  circumstances ; 
and  until  my  son  took  to  his  evil  ways,  I  may 
say,  we  were  quite  happy. 

'  One  night  when  my  husband  was  away  from 
home,  and  no  orie  in  ihe  house  but  Betsey  and 
myself,  and  she  sick — she  was  then  ten  years 
old— my  other  children  were  mercifully  away 
from  home,  one  was  gone  with  her  father  and 
the  other  went  that  night  to  stay  with  one  of  her 
mates — But  as  I  was  telling,  at  midnight  I  was 
waked  by  a  great  crash  at  the  doer,  and  one 
of  my  neighbors  calling  to  me  to  run  for  my 
life,  for  my  house  was  on  fire— be  quick,  says 
he,  and  do  not  stay  to  put  on  your  clothes,  or 
you  will  never  get  out.  I  do  not  know  how  it 
was — I  was  always  timorsome,  but  his  dreadful 
words  only  seemed  to  give  me  courage,  for  I 
wrapped  Betsey  in  the  blanket  and  took  her  in 


228  MARY   JONES. 

my  arms,  and  pushed  through  the  smoke  which 
almost  choked  me,  never  stopping  for  a  nig,  of 
clothes  myself,  and  it  was  well  I  did  not,  for  ihe 
flames  seemed  to  follow  my  steps,  and  I  believe 
had  I  stayed  in  the  house  a  min-ite  longer,  I 
never  should  have  got  out,  sure  enough.  The 
neighbors  tried  to  put  out  the  fire,  but  it  was 
too  late;  it  burned  to  the  ground,  and  all  that 
was  in  the  house  was  consumed.  Everybody 
was  kind  to  us.  They  led  and  clothed  us  ;  and 
my  husband,  by  the  sale  of  our  land  and  his 
work,  was  able  to  buy  this  little  cottage,  which 
to  be  sure  was  better  then  than  it  is  now,  and 
while  he  lived  we  continued  to  have  a  clever 
support;  but  since  his  death,  my  small  earnings 
from  knitting,  and  Betsey's  work,  and  the  trifle 
that  my  two  daughters  who  are  married,  and 
settled  at  a  distance,  sometimes  send  me,  a 
gown  or  the  like— would  not  keep  me  from  want 
if  our  friends  were  not  good  to  us  as  they  are. 
God,  who  gave  me  presence  of  mind  and  power 
to  escape  from  the  flames  with  my  child  at  the 
very  moment  of  destruction,  has  not  forsaken 
me  since ;  nor  have  1  ever  forgotten  his  care 
at  that  perilous  hour.     For  whatever  have  been 


MARY   JONES.  229 

my  fears  or  troubles  since^  and  they  have  been 
many,  I  have  never  felt  alone  or  disheartened. 
I  have  always  in  him  a  very  present  help  in  time 
of  need.  Yes,  I  have  said  it,  and  I  may  say  it 
again — He  has  never  forsaken  me.'  And  wip- 
ing from  her  eyes  the  tears  which  this  recollec- 
tion of  all  his  goodness  seemed  to  bring  there, 
she  took  each  of  the  children's  hands  in  her  own, 
and  said — '  My  dear  children,  you  are  not  too 
young  to  feel  that  your  Maker  is  your  best 
friend — and  you  may  learn  from  an  old  woman 
like  me,  that  those  who  trust  to  his  friendship, 
and  his  care,  will  find  him  near  in  fears  to  give 
them  courage,  in  danger  to  protect  them,  and 
in  happiness  to  keep  their  hearts  from  sorrow.' 
Both  of  the  children  listened  to  her  with  great 
interest,  her  manner  was  so  affectionate  and 
earnest;  and  Mary  wTas  delighted  to  see  that 
though  she  was  so  poor  and  had  seen  so  many 
troubles,  she  still  seemed  to  enjoy  great  hap- 
piness, only  from  thinking  of  God  and  making 
him  her  friend.  But  she  could  not  help  think- 
ing that  it  was  a  little  strange  that  when  most  of 
her  troubles  were  sent  by  God,  she  should  con- 
tinue to  love  him  and  think  of  him  with  so  much 


230  MARX"    JONKS. 

pleasure.  And  she  determined  to  ask  her  mo- 
ther about  it. 

As  they  walked  home  they  talked  about  the 
old  lady.  '  How  mnny  troubles  she  must  have 
had,'  said  Mary; '  her  son's  dying  after  he  had 
become  good,  just  as  he  might  have  been  a  help 
to  her — and  her  husband  too,  who  I  should 
think  must  have  been  a  very  good  man — and 
then  their  house  being  burned;  the  place  too, 
which  her  father  left  her,  where  I  suppose  she 
lived  when  she  was  a  little  girl.' 

'  And  only  think,'  said  Susan,  l  to  hear  her 
talk  of  her  'comfortable'  old  age.  I  looked 
round  and  thought  it  was  anything  but  comfort. 
There  were  on  her  shelves,  just  three  or  four 
tea-cups  and  saucers;  six  plates,  every  one  of 
them  different,  and  each  mended  with  putty; 
one  blue  tea-pot  with  a  white  lid;  and  a  little 
black  one  not  bigger  than  a  good  sized  apple. 
Then  half  a  dozen  odd  things  set  about,  and 
that  was  all.  Then  there  was  one  table,  and 
four  chairs,  all  odd  ones,  and  a  bed.  To  be 
sure  everything  looked  neat  and  tidy,  but  I 
should  not  call  it  comfortable,  1  'm  sure.  For 
my  part,  it  is  strange   to  me  that  she  can  be  so 


MARY    JONES.  231 

happy.'  Mary  said  nothing  in  reply  to  this 
observation,  for  it  was  not  so  strange  to  her 
that  she  could  be  happy,  for  she  had  learned 
something  of  the  happiness  which  arises  from 
love  to  our  Heavenly  Father,  though  she  had 
never  before  supposed,  that  those  who  were 
very  poor  and  afflicted,  could  be  really  happy 
even  with  that. 

Mary  told  her  mother  all  that  had  passed 
with  Mrs  Turner:  '  and  should  you  believe  it, 
mother?  she  seems  to  love  God  just  as  well  as 
if  he  had  never  given  her  any  troubles  to  bear. 
Don't  you  think  that  is  strange,  mother?' 

'No,  dear,  I  do  not  think  it  strange,  because  I 
know  that  when  God  afflicts  his  children,  he 
makes  them  see  that  it  is  for  their  own  good. 
The  Bible  says,  '  whom  he  loveth  he  chasten- 
eth,'  and  you  do  not  suppose  that  when  he 
brings  affliction  on  any  one  to  make  them  bet- 
ter, he  leaves  them  without  consolations.' 
'  How  can  he  console  them,  mother?' 
4  By  his  Spirit,  my  dear;  when  any  one 
meets  with  a  great  loss  that  nothing  in  the 
world  can  make  up,  and  they  feel  as  if  some- 
thing had  been  removed  from  them  which  was 


232  MARY    JONES. 

so  necessary  to  their  happiness  that  they  can 
hardly  live  in  the  world  without  it — they  nat- 
urally turn  to  God,  knowing  that  it  is  he  who 
has  afflicted  them.  And  then  he  shows  to  their 
mind  how  he  is  indeed  their  Father ;  and 
how  he  pitieth  them  as  a  father  pitieth 
his  children.'  He  reminds  them  by  his  Spir- 
it of  all  the  comforting  promises  of  the  Bi- 
ble. He  seems  to  say  to  their  sorrowing 
heart,  '  Come  unto  me  and  I  will  give  you 
rest' — '  I  will  never  leave  thee,  nor  forsake  thee 
— '  I  will  give  thee  the  oil  of  joy  for  mourning, 
and  the  garment  of  praise  for  the  spirit  of  heav- 
iness.' This  very  intercourse  with  God  gives 
them  a  peace  of  mind  which  is  more  delightful 
than  anything  the  world  could  give.  So  instead 
of  loving  him  less  for  such  afflictions,  they  love 
him  more.  And  so  it  is  with  this  old  lady.  Every 
trouble  she  has  met  with  has  made  her  more 
intimate  with  her  heavenly  Father,  till  she  has 
found  that  his  favor  is  more  precious  than  all  the 
possessions  of  life.' 

Mary  was  thoughtful  a  (ew  moments,  and 
then  said,  '  Mother,  if  you  were  to  lose  our 
sweet  little  Fanny,  do  you  think  you  should 
love  God  better   after  that  than  you  do  now?' 


MARY   JONES.  233 

*  My  dear  Mary,  I  once  had  a  sweet  little 
Fanny,  who  had  she  lived,  would  now  be  three 
years  older  than  you.  When  she  died  I  had 
no  other  child,  and  you  can  imagine  what  a 
dreadful  loss    it  was  to  your  father  and  me!' 

c  Why,  mother!'  said  Mary,  'I  did  not  know 
that  you  had  a  little  girl  before  me.' 

1  No  I  never  felt  like  talking  about  it,   and 
should  not  now,  but  for  your  question,  which  ! 
could  best  answer  by  telling  you  that  until  that 
darling  was  taken  from  me,  I  never  loved  God 
as  a  child  should  love  a  father.' 

'  And  could  you  then,  mother?' 

'  I  knew  that  He  had  taken  her  away,  and 
so  I  went  to  him,  praying  that  he  would  comf*  rt 
my  wretched  heart.  Then  I  thought  that  my 
child  was  not  more  mine  than  his — that  he 
gave  her  to  me — that  he  had  permited  me  to 
enjoy  the  lovely  gift  for  a  delightful  seas  n, 
watching  over  her  himself,  and  keeping  her 
from  sickness  and  from  harm.  And  now  that 
he  had  seen  fit  to  remove  her  to  his  own  home, 
was  it  for  me  to  repine?  He  had  taken  her 
from  a  wicked  world  while  she  was  innocent, 
and  her  sweet  spirit  would   live  in   Heaven, 


234  MARY   JONES. 

where  it  could  know  no  sin,  or  unhappiness. 
She  would  go  on  from  one  perfection  to  anoth- 
er— aid  grow  in  the  knowledge  of  every  beau- 
tiful work  of  God.  And  then  at  last  I  should 
meet  her  again  in  that  world,  never  to  part  any- 
more, if  1  followed  my  Saviour's  directions  in 
this.  Then,  my  dear  Mary,  don't  you  think 
that,  grieved  as  I  was  to  live  without  this  light 
of  my  eyes  and  joy  of  my  heart — I  had  enough 
to  reconcile  me  to  her  removal,  and  could  think 
of  her  dwelling  with  our  heavenly  Father  with 
pleasure?' 

<  O,  yes,  mother,  it  seems,  now  that  you  have 
told  me  this,  that  I  shall  love  to  think  of  Heav- 
en more  than  I  used  to — now  that  1  have  a  sister 
there — and  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  love  God  any 
the  less  for  taking  her  to  live  with  him.  Though 
I  hope  he  will  let  dear  little  Fanny  live  with 
us,  mother— do  not  you  ?  ' 

'Certainly,  my  dear, — we  should  hope  and 
pray  for  the  iives  of  those  we  love  ;  for  though 
God  reconciles  us  when  he  takes  them  away, 
he  does  not  require  us  to  give  up  the  blessings 
he  bestows  on  us,  until  he  calls  for  theni^ 


MARY    JONES.  235 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Susan's  visit  had  arrived  to  the  day  but  one 
of  her  departure.  And  when  Mary  thought  of 
it  in  the  morning,  she  could  not  help  feeling 
sorry  that  she  was  going  away  so  soon,  and 
she  was  ready  to  overlook  all  the  little  causes 
of  discontent  that  Susan  ha  d  occasioned  her, 
and  wished  she  had  thought  less  of  them  than 
she  had  done.  But  she  determined  she  would 
forget  ail  on  that  day,  and  see  how  much  pleas- 
ure she  could  give  her. 

Susan  too,  wTas  more  in  the  humor  of  being 
pleased  than  she  had  been;  perhaps  from  the 
thought  of  so  soon  leaving  her  kind  cousins. 
And  it  may  be  that  she  began  to  suspect  that 
her  own  manners  had  not  been  so  kind  to  Ma- 
ry, or  to  the  other  children,  as,  at  the  moment 
of  parting,  she  wished  they  had  been. 

Most  of  the  morning  was  taken  up  by  the  two 
cousins  in  rambling  about  the  fields  and  woods 
near  Mr  Jones's  house.     Susan  urged  Mary  to 


MARY    J  ON  CSV 

come  to  Portland  and  return  her  visit ;  and  told 
her  of  the  delights  she  would  find  there — How 
she  should  go  with  her  to  her  grandfather's  ; 
where  she  said  she  was  often  allowed  to  have 
little  parties — one  of  her  aunts  played  for  them 
to  dance — and  then  her  grandmother  gave  them 
such  a  delightful  treat !  She  could  ride  about 
too,  and  go  to  the  shops  ;  and  find  a  hundred 
new  things  every  day — :  which  is  so  pleasant? 
you  know,  Mary,  when  one  gets  tired  of  staying 
at  home.'  Mary  confessed  she  did  not  know 
what  it  was  to  get  tired  of  staying  at  home,  and 
said  she  never  had  such  things  to  amuse  her  as 
Susan  spoke  of,  so  she  supposed  she  could  be 
happy  without  them  ;  but  she  should  be  delight- 
ed to  see  them,  and  be  in  Portland  for  a  while, 
though  everything  would  be  so  new  to  her  that 
she  should  seem  very  awkward,  she  did  not 
doubt.  And  she  said  her  mother  had  promised 
to  take  her  there  when  she  could  feel  confidence 
enough  in  her  to  be  willing  to  trust  her  with  her 
own  behaviour. 

Mary  thought  Susan  had  never  been  so 
agreeable  as  she  was  that  morning,  and  she  be- 
gan  to  think  she  should  like  to  visit  her.      She 


MARY    JONES.  237 

hoped  too,  that  she  would  come  to  Exeter 
again,  and  really  felt  sorry  that  she  was  going 
away. 

They  returned  to  the  house  in  great  good 
humor,  and  Susan  did,  for  once,  play  pleasant- 
ly with  Charles  and  Fanny  for  some  time, 
much  to  their  surprise,  and  more  to  their  de- 
light, and  they  often  looked  up  in  her  face,  to 
be  sure  that  it  was  she,  and  not  Mary. 

But  all  this  delightful  harmony  was  not  to 
continue  to  the  end  of  the  visit.  And  I  am  sor- 
ry, after  such  a  morning,  to  have  a  very  differ- 
ent afternoon  to  describe. 

I  dare  say  many  cf  my  little  friends  will  wish 
I  would  stop  here,  if  1  cannot  say  the  day  was 
finished  as  it  was  begun.  But  I  must  tell  them 
that  when  the  good  nature  of  a  little  girl  de- 
pends entirely  on  the  humor  of  the  moment,  and 
she  cannot  be  pleasant  for  the  sake  of  making 
others  happy,  and  because  it  is  her  duty,  we 
can  never  be  certain  that  it  will  last  long,  for 
the  first  thing  that  interferes  with  her  pleasures 
will  cast  a  cloud  over  her  good  nature,  and  the 
morning  which  saw  a  shining  countenance  will 
not  pass  away  so  soon  as  that  countenance  will 


238  MARY    JONES. 

be  changed  to  angry  frowns  and  discontent 
And  our  friend  Mary  too — I  am  grieved  to 
have  anything  to  say  of  her  that  is  worthy  of 
blame;  but  good  and  amiable  as  Mary  was,  I 
hope  none  of  those  who  read  her  history  will 
suppose  she  could  not  do  wrong.  I  never  saw 
a  little  girl  that  had  no  faults,  and  though  I  have 
not,  in  this  story,  had  occasion  to  mention  Ma- 
ry's faults — and  though  I  really  think  she  had  as 
few  as  any  little  girl  I  ever  was  acquainted  with; 
yet  I  must  now  record  an  instance  of  sudden  re- 
sentment, such  as  she  was  seldom,  if  ever  guil- 
ty of  before,  and  I  think  1  may  certainly  say 
such  as  she  never  again  gave  way  to  in  the  whole 
course  of  her  life. 

It  happened  that  Charles's  good  natured  heart 
wTas  quite  overcome  by  the  change  in  Susan's 
temper  towards  himself  and  Fanny,  while  they 
were  at  home  at  noon,  and  as  he  walked  to  school 
in  the  afternoon  with  his  father,  he  said,  *  I'm 
sorry  Susan's  going  away  tomorrow,  an't  you, 
father?' 

His  father,  who  had  not  thought  her  visit  had 
been  very  delightful  to  Charles,  was  surprised 
at  this,  and  asked  him  why  he  was  sorry* 


MAiir  jones.  239 

*  Why,  she  played  so  pleasantly  with  Fan 
and  me  today,  that  I  really  liked  her — and  I 
think  i'f  she  should  stay  a  week  longer,  she  would 
get  to  be  something  like  Mary,  father — don't 
you  ?' 

I  Perhaps  so — but  what  do  you  mean  to  do 
about  it  Charles  ?  She  cannot  stay,  you  know, 
for  her  mother  has  determined  to  go  tomorrow 
morning.' 

I I  know  that,  but  I  can't  help  being  sorry.  It 
seems  to  me  I  should  like  to  give  her  something 
before  she  goes.' 

1  Well — why  don't  you  give  her  something,  if 
you  wish  to  ?' 

'  Why  the  reason  is,  father,  I've  nothing  to 
give — only  my  cup  and  ball — and  I  should  bate 
to  part  with  that — but  I  would  though  if  she  lik- 
ed it;  but  then  she  once  called  it  an  ugly  thing, 
— so  I  shall  not  give  her  that.' 

Mr  Jones  was  always  glad  to  see  any  dispo* 
sition  to  generosity  in  his  children,  and  though 
he  could  not  afford  to  make  presents  to  people 
richer  than  himself,  he  never  could  discourage 
any  wish  which  his  children  expressed,  to  give 
away,  when  he  did  not  disapprove  the  object. 
14 


240  MART   JONES. 

And  in  this  instance  he  felt  a  wish  to  gratify 
Charles.  So  he  told  him  if  his  heart  was  set 
on  making  his  cousin  a  present,  and  he* really 
thought  the  cup  and  ball  would  not  do,  he  might 
come  to  his  store  after  school,  and  if  he  could 
find  anything  in  the  street  that  would  do,  he 
would  get  it  for  him.  Charles  was  delighted, 
and  we  shall  not  find  a  little  boy  of  his  age,  who 
would  not  forgive  him,  if  he  was  not  quite  so  at- 
tentive at  his  school  that  afternoon  as  usual,  and 
thought  more  of  his  present  than  his  lessons. 


MARY   JONES.  241 


CHAPTER  X. 


Mr  Jones  had  found  his  promise  lo  Charles, 
less  easily  fulfilled  than  he  expected;  for  he  look- 
ed long  in  vain  at  the  stores  of  the  village  for 
something  that  might  please  the  young  lady. 
She  had  so  long  been  in  the  habit  of  having  her 
wishes  gratified  to  their  extent,  and  even  pam- 
pered, that  it  was  not  probable  she  would  be 
pleased  by  anything  that.  Exeter  would  afford. 
But  he  at  last  found  a  kaleidoscope.  It  was  the 
first  he  had  ever  seen,  and  really  a  very  hand- 
some one. 

Charles  looked  at  the  outside  with  delight — 
but  when  his  father  told  him  to  put  his  eye  to 
the  little  round  glass  in  the  end  while  he  moved 
it  round,  and  he  saw  all  the  beautiful  and  bril- 
liant changes,  resembling  the  gayest  flowers,  at 
the  other; — he  could  contain  himself  no  longer, 
— he  clapped  his  hands,  and  danced  about  for 

joy- 
All  the  way  home   Charles   was  contriving 


242  MARY   JONES. 

how  he  could  surprise  Susan  with  such  an  ele- 
gant present.  At  Inst  he  thought  he  would  cov- 
er it  with  his  handkerchief,  and  tell  her  there 
was  a  roll  of  something  for  her — but  at  the  same 
time  he  would  appear  as  if  it  was  nothing  very 
handsome.  So  with  the  matter  all  fixed  in  his 
own  mind,  he  hurried  in,  and  finding  that  the 
girls  were  up  stairs  with  another  little  girl  of  Ma- 
ry's acquaintance,  he  ran  up  to  the  room,  and 
the  moment  he  opened  the  door  exclaimed, '  Su- 
san— Susan  Ray,  I've' — here  he  stopped — for 
Susan  was  playing  checkers  with  the  little  girl 
I  have  mentioned,  and  as  he  spoke  she  looked 
at  him  with  angry  impatience  and  checked  his 
words. 

Now  Susan  had  been  twice  beat,  which  was 
enough  to  sour  her — for  her  uncles  and  aunts 
always  let  Susan  beat;— she  was  engaged  in  the 
third  game,  and  had  just  thought  the  luck  was 
coming  to  her — that  is,  if  her  partner  would 
only  move  quick,  before  she  happened  to  see 
the  place  which  she  had  left  open  where  Susan 
could  jump — she  did  not  see  it,  and  was  just 
moving  somewhere  else  as  Charles  diverted 
their  attention  and  stopped  Miss  Green's  hand. 


MARY   JONES.  243 

Susan  was  vexed  at  the  delay,  and  gave  him  a 
look  to  stop;  this  gave  Miss  Green  time  to  see 
the  jumping  place;  and  just  as  she  moved  the 
man  away,  and  thus  destroyed  Susan's  hope  of 
a  jump,  Charles  came  up  with  the  roll— poor 
fellow!  he  had  not  got  the  words  half  out  of 
his  mouth  when  she  angrily  struck  the  roll 
from  his  hands,  saying,  '  do  get  out  of  the  way — 
spoiling  our  game  !' — away  went  the  present, 
bang  into  the  chimney  corner — and  its  utter 
ruin  was  the  consequence. 

Charles's  disappointment,  grief,  and  anger 
were  greater  than  he  could  bear,  but  he  was 
more  angry  them  anything  else,  and  flying  at 
Susan  he  would  have  struck  her,  but  she, 
ready  for  the  battle,  caught  both  his  hands  in 
hers,  and  held  them  tight;  this  made  him  still 
more  angry,  and  he  attempted  a  kick— but 
Susan  was  stronger  than  he,  and  quite  as  angry, 
and  putting  out  her  own  foot,  she  tripped  him 
up,  and  he  fell  flat  upon  the  floor  with  a 
great  noise. 

Mary  looked  on  the  affray  with  increasing 
anger,  and  when  she  saw  Charles  fall  in  this 
way  she  could  refrain  no  longer,  and  stepping 


244  MARY    JONES. 

up,  she    gave  Susan    a  blow  on  the   cheek, 
which  made  her  cry  with  pain. 

All  this  passed  in  much  less  time  than  I  have 
been  telling  it,  so  that  when  Mrs  Jones  and 
Mrs  Ray  got  to  the  room,  where  they  hasten- 
ed on  hearing  the  noise,  it  was  all  over-— a  iook 
convinced  them  that  the  three  had  been  en- 
gaged in  the  quarrel,  and  without  asking  any 
questions,  they  sent  each  to  their  own  chamber 
to  remain  alone  till  their  mothers  should  see 
fit  to  visit  them.  Eliza  Green  was  a  witness 
of  the  whole  affair,  and  from  her  the  mothers 
received  a  fair  account.  And  Mr  Jones,  who 
soon  after  returned,  finished  the  explanation, 
by  telling  them  all  about  Charles's  intended 
present. 

Mrs  Ray  was  grieved  to  see  the  share  of 
blame  which  fell  to  Susan;  and  indulgent  as 
she  was  to  her  faults,  she  now  felt  that  she  had 
to  correct  a  very  selfish  and  passionate  dispo- 
sition. I  shall  not  pretend  to  say  what  passed 
between  them  in  her  chamber, but  it  is  certain 
that  Mrs  Ray  found  her  daughter  sullen  and 
cross,  but  left  her  ashamed  and  sorry  for  her 
fault. 


MARY    JONES.  245 

When  Mrs  Jones  visited  Charles,  who  was 
really  most  innocent  and  most  injured  of  the 
party,  she  found  him  at  the  window  watching 
the  pigeons  on  the  roof  of  the  barn.  He  had 
got  through  with  a  hearty  crying,  and  now 
only  wished  for  permission  to  go  down  stairs; 
which  he  begged  as  soon  as  he  saw  his  mother; 
saying,  he  thought  it  w7as  too  bad  to  keep 
him  up  there,  when  he  was  not  to  blame  in 
the  least. 

e  That  Susan  !  I  wonder  how  I  could  ever 
think  of  liking  her — but  she  is  going  away  to- 
morrow, and  1  am  glad  of  that.  I  hope  she 
will  never  come  into  this  house  again.  O  that 
elegant  thing  !  to  dash  it  in  pieces  so  !'  And 
Charles's  anger  began  to  rise  again  as  he  thought 
of  his  defeated  purpose. 

'  Stop,  stop,  my  child,'  said  his  mother; '  is 
this  passion  going  to  mend  the  '  elegant  thing,' 
as  you  call  it  ?  or  will  it  do  any  good  to  rail 
about  Susan  ?  I  dare  say  she  is  sufficiently 
ashamed  of  her  conduct  by  this  time,  and  la- 
ments it  as  much  as  you  do.' 

1  Do  you  really  suppose  she  is   sorry   for 


246  MARY    JONES. 

it,  mother  ?     If  I  thought  she  was,  I  should  not 
care  so  much  about  it.' 

'  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  sorry  for  it,  and  it 
seems  to  me,  Charles,  you  have  something  to 
be  sorry  for.  Do  you  think  your  hands  and 
feet  were  given  you  to  strike  and  to  kick  ?' 

6  I  did  not  hit  her,  mother — and  if  I  had,  she 
threw  me  on  the  floor.' 

4 1  am  not  speaking  of  what  she  did;  that  is 
her  affair.5 

1  Well,  mother,  1  was  angry,  and  who  would 
not  be?' 

'And  supposing  you  were  angry;  do  not 
you  think  your  feet  would  have  served  you  as 
well,  had  you  employed  them  to  leave  the 
room  ?' 

i  Why  yes,  mother;  but  how  could  1  think 
of  it?' 

1  Perhaps  you  could  not,  just  then;  but  sup- 
pose such  a  thing  to  happen  again;  do  not  you 
think  you  could  remember,  and  ifyou  are  tempt- 
ed by  your  anger  to  return  evil  for  evil,  you 
could  leave  the  spot  before  you  do  anything  to 
be  ashamed  of?' 

1  1  rather  think  I  could,  if  I  ought  too.' 


MARY   JONES.  217 

*  Ought  too  !  Charles,  do  not  you  know 
that  it  is  one  of  the  very  wickedest  things  in  the 
world  to  return  evil  for  evil  ?  and  that  your 
being  angry  is  no  excuse  for  it?  For  if  you 
are  ever  so  angry  you  can  run  out  of  the  room.' 

'  Well,  mother,  I  will  try  the  next  time,  cer- 
tainly. And  now  may  not  I  go  down  stairs;  for 
there  is  father  in  the  garden,  and  I  want  to  go/ 

1  You  may  go,  child,'  said  his  mother;  and 
in  another  moment  his  father  was  trying  to  cheer 
him  up  under  his  disappointment;  and  the  good 
natured  little  fellow  was  soon  disposed  to  forget 
it,  in  some  other  pursuit. 

Mrs  Jones's  next  visit  was  to   Mary.     She 
found  her  silting  on  a  trunk,  looking  as  unhappy 
as -possible.     As  soon   as  she  saw  her  mother, 
she  flew  up  to  her,  and  throwing  her  arms  round 
her  neck,  she  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
When  she  could  speak  she  said,    'I  never  was 
so  unhappy  in  my  life.     I  do  not  know  what  to 
do.     I  am  sorry  I  struck  Susan,  but  I  could  not 
bear  to  see  her  treat  Charles  so.     I  have  tried 
to  ask  God   to  forgive  me;  but  I  cannot  take 
any  pleasure  in  thinking  of  his  presence.     I  can- 
not bear  to  think  he  saw  what  we  did.     O  mo* 
14* 


248  MARY    JONES. 

ther,  1  feel  as  if  I  never  should  be  happy  again.' 
And  again  she  burst  into  tears,  as  bitterly  as  at 
first. 

c  It  is  well  you  are  sorry  for  your  fault,  my 
dear  child,'  said   her  mother,  as  soon  as  Mary 
began  to    be  composed.     '  But  if  you  would 
have  your  peace  of  mind  restored,  and  return 
to  your  heavenly   Father  with   pleasure,   you 
must  do  more  than  be  sorry.     Our  Saviour  has 
taught  us  how  to  return  to  him  in  such  a  case 
as  yours,  my  dear  Mary.     He  says,  'If  thou 
bring  thy    gift     to   the    altar,    and    there    re- 
member   that    thy    brother   hath  aught  against 
thee,    leave    there    thy    gift    before   the    altar, 
and    go  thy    way;  first   be    reconciled    to  tby 
brother,  and  then  come  and  offer  thy  gift.'     Or, 
to  explain  it,  my  dear,  do   not  attempt  to. pray 
to  God  until  you  have  been  to  your  cousin  and 
confessed  your  sorrow  for  your  fault,  and  made 
a  reconciliation  with    her.     Do  not  leave  her 
until   you  have    become   friends.     Then   you 
will  feel  confidence  in  coming  to  your  heavenly 
Friend  and  Father,  and  then  I  can  assure  you, 
you  will  not  find  his  presence  painful  to  you.' 
Mary  did  not  like   to  ask  Susan's  pardon. 


MARY    JONES.  249 

She  was  truly  sorry  for  her  fault;  she  was  asham- 
ed to  think  of  it,  and  would  have  given  anything 
in  the  world  if  she  could  but  take  back  the  blow 
she  had  given.  But  then  Susan  had  been  to 
blame.  She  had  treated  Charles  shamefully, 
and  she  could  not  think  of  her  disappointing 
him  so,  and  then  think  of  asking  her  pardon  for 
her  own  fault,  without  hanging  back. 

Mrs  Jones  observed  in  her  downcast  looks 
her  unwillingness  to  go,  and  readily  guessed  the 
cause.  '  But,  mother,  said  Mary,  do  not  you 
think  that  Susan  was  more  to  blame  than  1  was?' 

1  Perhaps  she  was;  but  that  is  nothing  to  you. 
Susan  has  her  own  fault  to  settle  with  her  heav- 
enly Father;  and  if  it  is  greater  than  yours,  she 
is  the  more  to  be  pitied.  You  see  your  own  is 
sufficiently  great  to  make  you  unhappy  in  his 
presence,  and  I  have  told  you  the  only  way  of 
making  your  peace  with  him.  If  you  are  not 
willing  to  follow  the  plain  direction  which  our 
Saviour  has  kindly  given  us,  I  do  not  know  of 
any  other  way,  my  dear,  by  which  you  can  be 
happy  again.  Think  but  one  moment  of  laying 
your  head  on  your  pillow  tonight  without  being 
able  to  ask  God's  forgiveness  and  blessing,  be^ 


249  MARY    JONES. 

cause  you  are  not  willing  to  come  to  him  in  Ins 
appointed  way.' 

4  O  mother,  say  no  more;  I  will  go  to  Susan 
this  very  moment,  and  make  up  with  her,  1  am 
sure  I  will ;  and  I  will  ask  her  to  forgive  me;  and 
I  will  forgive  her,  I  am  sure  I  will.' 

With  this  she  flew  to  Susan's  chamber — 
'  Susan,5  said  she,  '  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to 
make  up  with  me.  I  am  sorry  I  struck  you, — 
are  you  willing  to  forgive  me?'  This  wTas  more 
than  Susan  expected.  She  was  deeply  asham- 
ed of  her  own  conduct;  and  when  she  heard 
Mary  ask  her  forgiveness,  she  felt  more  sorry 
for  it  than  she  had  done  before;  so  much  so,  that 
she  cried,  and  told  Mary  that  if  she  could  for- 
give her  she  should  be  glad,  for  she  was  most 
to  blame;  and  she  was  sure  she  would  never 
think  of  her  striking  her  again.  Mary  was  de- 
lighted, aud  putting  her  arms  round  Susan's 
neck,  they  kissed  each  other,  and  were  friends. 

1  O,  said  Mrs  Jones,'  who  sat  within  hearing, 
1  how  beautiful  are  our  Saviour's  rules  of  action, 
when  practised  by  children!  How  suited  to  the 
day-spring  of  their  lives!  Well  has  he  said, 
*  suffer  them  to  come  unto  me  !' 


MARY   JONES.  250 

Here  Mary  came  back  with  a  light  heart  and 
altered  countenance.  Susan  too,  looked  sub- 
dued and  gentle,  as  she  came  before  her  aunt, 
who  took  them  to  her  side,  and  said,  '  my  dear 
children,  let  this  afternoon  teach  you  both  to 
practise  through  life  a  beautiful  and  solemn  ex- 
hortation of  scripture.  'Let  not  the  sun  go 
down  upon  your  wrath,'  or  anger.  Had  you 
left  this  making- up  till  morning,  your  hearts 
would  have  been  hardened  towards  each  other> 
and  perhaps  for  your  whole  lives  you  would  not 
have  been  cordial  friends.'  Kissing  them  she 
bade  them  wash  from  their  faces  the  signs  of 
what  had  passed,  and  to  prepare  to  appear  at 
tea  with  good  humor  and  affection. 

She  then  left  them;  and  seeing  Mrs  Ray  in 
the  garden  with  little  Fanny,  she  joined  them 
there,  and  told  her  sister  what  had  passed  up 
stairs.  I  d  o  suspect  that  Susan's  mother  had 
never  felt  so  much  satisfaction  with  this  indulg- 
ed daughter  of  hers,  as  on  hearing  of  this  symp- 
tom of  correct  feeling:  but  still  she  did  not  dare 
to  urge  it  too  far,  and  though  she  thought  that 
some  concession  was  due  from  her  to  Charles, 


251  MARY   JONES. 

she  was  anxious  that  peace  might  be  restore  d 
without  it. 

Mrs  Jones  knew  quite  as  well  as  her  sister,  that 
no  such  thing  was  to  be  expected  from  Susan, 
and  she  went  to  prepare  Charles  to  meet  his 
cousin  pleasantly  when  she  came  down  to  tea. 
4  Charles,  my  dear,  this  thing  must  be  forgotten, 
and  when  you  meet  Susan  I  hope  you  will  try 
to  treat  her  as  if  nothing  had  happened.' 

'  Why  mother,  I  am  willing  to  treat  her  well, 
but  as  to  forgetting  it,  that  1  cannot  do.' 

'  Well,  well,  my  son,  think  as  little  of  it  as 
you  can,'  said  his  mother,  '  and  when  you  are 
with  her  try  to  think  of  something  else.' 

1  I  am  willing  to  try,'  said  Charles,  J  but  I 
guess  that  seeing  her  will  make  me  think  more 
of  that  than  I  did  before.' 

4  If  you  must  thii  k  of  that,  Charles,  and 
nothing  else,'  said  his  mother,  '  1  hope  you  will 
take  care  to  remember  your  own  part  in  the 
quarrel,  and  then  perhaps  you  will  not  be  quite 
so  unwilling  to  turn  your  thoughts.' 

When  the  children  appeared  at  tea,  Susan 
and  Charles  showed  by  their  side  glances  and 
silence  toward  each  other,  that  they  did  not  feel 


MARY    JONES.  251 

quite  easy;  but  the  reconciliation  between  the 
girls  was  so  entire,  that  so  far  from  constraint, 
they  seemed  more  kind  and  affectionate  than 
usual. 


252  MARY   JONES. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

After  Mary  had  bid  good  night,  Mrs  Jones 
soon  followed  her  to  her  chamber,  for  she  was 
anxious  that  the  events  of  the  afternoon  should 
make  a  strong  impression  on  her  heart,  and  teach 
her  an  important  lesson. 

'You  recollect,  my  dear  Mary,'  said  she, 
'  that  it  was  in  the  spring  I  first  asked  you  to 
think  of  God's  presence  at  all  times,  and  to  see 
if  it  ever  gave  you  anything  but  pleasure.  Since 
that,  you  have  not  omitted  one  evening  to  tell 
me  your  thoughts,  and  in  no  instance,  until  to- 
day, have  you  been  sorry  that  he  was  near  you. 
You  have  often  told  me  that  it  made  you  hap- 
pier than  you  ever  were  before.  Today  you 
could  not  bear  to  think  that  he  had  been  present, 
and  why,  Mary  ?' 

'  Because,  mother,  I  was  ashamed  to  have 
him  see  our  quarrel.' 

£  Just  so,  my  dear;  you  knew  it  would  dis- 
please him.  Now,  Mary,  this  is  what  I  wish 
you  to  lay  to  heart.     Your  own  experience  has- 


MARY   JONES.  253 

taught  it  you,  therefore  you  know  it  to  be  true, 
that  there  is  nothing  but  our  own  guilt  that  can 
make  us  unhappy  in  the  presence  of  God.  Try 
to  do  what  you  know  will  be  pleasing  in  his 
sight,  and  his  smile  will  gladden  your  heart, — 
His  spirit  will  enlighten  your  path,' — His  pres- 
ence will  give  you  peace  and  joy.  Do  the 
things  which  he  is  displeased  with,  and  his  frown 
settles  on  your  heart,  making  all  thought  of  him 
dark  and  unlovely.  You  fly  from  him,  and  hope 
he  does  not  think  of  you.' 

'O  mother,  I  hope  I  shall  never  wish  that  God 
would  not  think  of  me!  What  would  become  of 
me  ?' 

1  And  yet  did  you  not  wish  he  would  turn 
away  his  eye  from  you  this  afternoon,  Mary  ?' 

c  I  am  afraid  I  did.  But  after  I  had  made 
up  with  Susan,  I  was  glad  to  come  to  my  heav- 
enly Father,  and  when  I  asked  his  forgiveness, 
it  was  easy,  and  I  felt  happier.' 

'  Thank  your  Saviour  for  that,  my  child,  and 
rejoice  that  he  has  taught  us  the  way  to  return 
to  the  favor  of  God  when  we  have  offended  him. ' 

{ Then  our  Saviour  knew,  mother,  that  if  we 
felt  unkindly  to  any  of  our  fellow  beings,  we 
could  not  pray  to  God  with  satisfaction. ' 


254  MART   JONES. 

1  Yes,  my  dear,  and  also  that  God  would  not 
like  to  hear  us  if  we  did.  Our  Saviour  knew 
everything  that  concerned  us  in  relation  to  God, 
and  has  given  ns  every  instruction  that  can  en- 
able us  to  please  him.' 

4  Mother,  I  should  like  to  know  what  those 
instructions  are,  if  you  think  I  am  old  enough 
to  understand  them  ;  for  I  should  hate  to  feel 
about  God's  seeing  me,  as  I  did  this  afternoon.' 

'  Cherish  this  feeling,  my  child,  and  if  you 
have  the  least  wish  at  any  time,  to  hide  yourself 
from  him,  or  that  he  would  turn  from  you,  do 
not  rest  till  you  have  found  the  way  to  return  to 
him,  and  be  happy.' 

I  have  now  told  you,  my  young  friends,  all  of 
Mary's  story  that  I  have  time  to  write  at  pres- 
ent. It  is  only  a  few  months  that  I  have  made 
you  acquainted  with ;  but  these  were  the  most 
important  of  her  life,  since  she  learned  in  this 
time  such  a  habit  of  thinking  herself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  God,  that  she  seldom  did  anything  with- 
out having  the  thought  of  him  cross  her  mind. 
You  will  readily  suppose  that  this  often  prevent- 
ed her  from  doing  wrong,  and  encouraged  her 
in  doing  right.     And  when  she  did  wrong,  she 


MARY   JONES.  255 

could  never  rest  easy  till  she  had  been  to  her 
mother  and  learned  the  way  to  please  him  again. 

She  found  the  kind  directions  of  our  Saviour 
were  always  the  very  thing  to  restore  her  to  his 
favor.  And  from  this  time  Mary  began  to  form 
a  character  which  grew  lovelier  and  lovelier, 
every  day. 

I  hope  I  shall  find  leisure  to  describe  her 
course,  and  to  tell  you  how  she  learned  to  think 
of  pleasing  her  heavenly  Father,  even  in  little 
things,  just  as  good  children  think  of  pleasing 
their  earthly  parents.  And  why  has  God  taken 
pains  to  tell  us  that  he  sees  our  most  trilling  ac- 
tions, and  notices  our  smallest  thoughts,  if  it  is 
not  that  in  those  thoughts  and  actions,  we  should 
think  of  him  ;  and  thus  learn  to  make  them 
good  and  holy. 

I  know  that  every  child  would  wish  to  follow 
her  example,  if  they  could  but  know  how  many 
kind  things  she  found  ways  to  do,  that  most  lit- 
tle girls  never  think  of.  How  particular  she  was 
in  the  most  trifling  duties  ;  how  cheerfully  she 
resigned  her  wishes,  to  gratify  others  ;  and  how 
much  happiness  and  contentment  she  spread 
about  her,  wherever  she  went. 


256  MARY   JONES, 

Yes,  I  feel  as  if  they  would  long  to  give  iheir 
hearts,  as  she  did,  to  wisdom's  ways,  for  they 
would  see  how  true  she  found  it,  that  'all  her 
ways  were  pleasantness,  and  all  her  paths  were 
peace.' 


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